


Symphony in C

by owlmoose



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alphabet Fic Meme, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 22,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of related shorts chronicling the rise and fall of Marissa Hawke, mage and eventual Champion of Kirkwall. Written for the Dragon Age Alphabet Challenge.</p><p>Primary pairing is f!Hawke/Fenris rivalmance. Only Chapter 12 is Explicit; most other chapters hover around the Teen rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Adagio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adagio - Italian, literally "At ease". A slow tempo marking; A composition written in a slow tempo, frequently the second movement of a larger work.

There had been no time to mourn for Bethany: no time to stop, no time even to breathe as the ogre roared and made to charge again. So Hawke had forced herself to turn away, dragging her eyes from Beth's body even as her heart screamed for her baby sister.

"Shut up!" she whispered to herself, and then threw herself into the battle, throwing fireball after fireball. Too busy fighting to think, to feel, too busy keeping her mother and her brother and herself alive. Finally the ogre was down, but they could only pause, just long enough for the templar to say a few words before the next wave of darkspawn was on them. No room for anything but the fight, the next jet of flame, the next stunning blow, the next call for healing. They came, and they came, and then they were gone, destroyed by the blast of fire from the dragon, the witch. The battle was over, but the distractions kept coming: negotiations with Flemeth, putting the templar out of his misery, consigning him and Beth to the flames, making ready to leave.

But then it was done and there was nothing left for her to do, nothing more to keep her mind and hands occupied. High above the world, flying to Gwaren on the back of a dragon, she found herself relaxing, and with that loss of focus she was no longer able to block out the sounds of mourning around her: Leandra's sobs, Carver's clumsy attempts at reassurance, Aveline's stony silence, the steady beat of enormous wings, voiceless spirits whispering in the rushing wind. Hands gripping the dragon's ridged back, Hawke lifted her face to the sky, remembering her last view of Bethany: eyes closed, hands folded over her chest, the flames of the funeral pyre that Hawke had created from her own magic dancing around her bloodied face. 

"I'm sorry, sister," she whispered, and at last, alone and in stillness, seen only by the sun and clouds, the tears slipped from her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, whisked away by the swift chill wind.


	2. B is for Baritone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Baritone - A male voice of lower middle vocal range.

"Marissa?" Bethany came into the herb room, a bundle of plants in her hand, and knocked her feet against the doorframe to shake the mud off her boots. "I found the variety of elfroot you asked for."

"Thanks. Just set it down on the table." Marissa gestured vaguely in the right direction, then turned back to the herbal that their father had used to record recipes and notes. "Now I have to find the formula. I'm sure it's in here somewhere." She wasn't half the herbalist that Malcolm Hawke had been, and not even a tenth the healer, but she was determined to at least try.

She flipped back and forth through the pages, each one filled with neat letters, thanks to Father's Circle-taught penmanship. In comparison, her notes were little better than chicken scratchings. Still, it was so dense with text that sometimes it could be hard to find any particular tidbit of information. So intent was Marissa on her reading that she hardly noticed when Bethany sat down on the stool next to her, only looking up when her sister cleared her throat.

"You always look so content when you're reading that book," Bethany commented with a smile.

Marissa glanced down at the book, then back at Bethany. "I always hear the recipes in Father's voice," she said, softly. "Even the ones he didn't teach me." She set the book down on the table, open to the standard health poultice recipe, remembering the sound of his deep, smooth voice as he would read to them during lessons. 

"I hear him too, sometimes," Bethany admitted. "Mostly when I'm practicing a new spell." She sighed. "I wish he were here. Maybe he would have better ideas on how to fight the darkspawn. The reports we've heard from the south, ever since Carver left for the army…" Her voice trailed off, and then she let her head fall on Marissa's shoulder. "I miss him."

Marissa put her arm around her sister and stroked her soft hair, thinking how best to acknowledge that they weren't only talking about Father anymore. "So do I," she said. "But there's nothing we can do. So we'll just hope the army succeeds, and prepare as best we can."

Bethany sighed. "Right." But she didn't move, and the sisters sat together for a little while longer, sharing a quiet moment of worry and memory.


	3. C is for Crescendo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crescendo - Italian: "Growing". To gradually increase in volume, over the span of several beats or bars.

_Gather your party and venture forth._  
\---

"You sure?" Meeran asked. "Usually I'd send at least half a dozen men on a job like this."

Hawke took the map from his hands and folded it into quarters. "I'm sure," she said. "Carver and I work best on our own."

\---

"The dwarf is right," Carver said as they left the tavern. "We really can't get together that much money without his help, his contacts."

Hawke blew the hair out of her eyes with a puff of air. She hated it when her brother was right. But this, time there was no denying it.

"Fine," she said. "We'll do as many of his jobs as it takes."

\---

"You work with the guard?" Varric raised an eyebrow at Hawke as they made their way through the Viscount's Keep. "Seems like that might attract unwanted attention."

Hawke paused at the top of the stairs, considering herself and her two companions from an outsider's perspective: a dwarf in the company of humans, an awkward young man wielding a large sword, and a woman with a tattoo and an odd spear-like weapon that probably wasn't fooling anyone. They did make a motley crew.

Aveline caught her eye and lifted a hand in greeting, beckoning her into the hall. Hawke acknowledged her with a nod, then turned to Varric. "I work with a guard," she said. "And it can be useful to know someone on the inside."

"Fair enough," Varric replied with a shrug. "Lead on, then."

\---

"As promised, here are the maps." Anders reached beneath his desk and extracted a roll of battered parchment. "And if you require further assistance on your journey, let me know."

Hawke accepted the documents and handed them to Varric. "Thanks." She studied his face, wondering if he really meant the offer. His brow was creased, his eyes shadowed; considering the secret burden he carried, no wonder if he seemed a bit care-worn.

"Another apostate?" Carver muttered, and Hawke smiled. Well, if it would piss Carver off...

That wasn't a reason to say out loud, of course. "I'm not much of a healer, and I could use one with Deep Roads experience. Once I have my share together, I'll let you know where and when. And if you're up for it, I might hire you on for a few other jobs here and there. " She glanced around the ramshackle clinic. "Looks like you could use the coin."

Anders responded with something that might have been a chuckle. "I can't argue there. Just come by when you need me."

\---

"Well, that was bracing," Anders commented as he opened the door to The Hanged Man. "Nothing quite like a good fight in the Chantry to clear your head."

Hawke shook her head at him, not deigning to provide further response. Carver and Varric had already acquired a table; as Hawke took a seat, her attention was caught by a laugh from the direction of the bar. She found she recognized it already: the loud, cheerful chortle, followed by the tossed off insult that seemed to be Isabela's trademark. The pirate had questioned the fighting skill, parentage, and manhood of Hayder and his lackeys alike, and then she'd backed her talk with some of the neatest, quickest knife work Hawke had ever seen. There was something satisfying in watching a professional fighter take not only pride but joy in her work.

Varric nudged Hawke's shoulder. "I'm glad you decided to help her," he said. "The Rivaini's a good partner, useful to have watching your back. Assuming she doesn't decide that there's more profit in stabbing it."

"And such a nice back to watch," Carver said, wistful; Varric guffawed and Anders shook his head with a half-smile. Hawke turned on him with a poison glare.

"She's just a little out of your league, don't you think?"

"I think I can decide that for myself." Isabela slid into the empty chair, a pitcher of ale in her hands, and grinned. Then she turned to Carver with a shrug. "But she's right. I am. Okay, so who's ready for a drink?"

\---

"Careful, there." Isabela indicated the broken glass on the stairs down to Lowtown with a sweep of her hand, then wrinkled her nose. "And you might want to avoid that puddle, too -- it doesn't look too savory."

Hawke caught Isabela's eye, then glanced at Merrill's bare feet. "We'll stop in the market. I can spare enough coin for some shoes."

Merrill shook her head with a smile. "Ah, no, that would never do. Being so far away from the grass, the trees, the open sky: I need to feel the ground more, not less. Thank you, Hawke, but I'll be fine."

There was a curious logic to it, Hawke had to admit. Though she had to wonder how long it would last.

They had walked for a few minutes more when Hawke heard Carver muttering something under his breath, and she hung back with him, casting him a look. "What are you on about now?" 

"Picking up another stray?" he said. "An elf? A blood mage?! Are you sure about this, Sister?"

Hawke watched Merrill for a moment, her wide-eyed wonder as she took in the the sight and smells, her hands wrapped around her staff, each step bouncing with excitement and fear; she watched Merrill and saw Bethany on the ship from Gwaren, getting her first glimpse of Kirkwall. "Yes," she said. "I'm sure."

\---

"He could have just asked for help," Aveline said as they walked out of the once-again deserted mansion, leaving Fenris there alone. "Clearing slavers out of Kirkwall is the guard's job."

Hawke let out an abrupt chuckle. "And you've been so effective at it." Aveline glared at her, but Hawke waved it off. "You'll whip them into shape, now that you're in charge."

Aveline sighed. "Let's hope so. Still, the question remains. Did he really think he could take that crew on by himself?"

"You'll note he didn't try." Hawke thought back on the battle with the slave hunters, and again in the mansion: his graceful leaps, his skill with the blade, the unearthly blue glow from his lyrium markings lighting up the room. He was... intriguing. Striking, too, especially with that shocking white hair and those intense eyes. Certainly the most attractive man she'd met in Kirkwall. Even his dislike of mages mostly struck her as an interesting challenge.

Beside her, Aveline cleared her throat, and Hawke started, turned; Aveline looked back at her, eyebrow raised. "You still with me?"

"Yes, just thinking." She shrugged. "Maybe he's not one to ask anyone for help, if he can avoid it. A man after my own heart."

Aveline laughed. "If you say so, Hawke. But it's been a long time since I've seen you work solo."

Hawke tried to remember when she'd last done a job on her own, or with only Carver. Had it been weeks? No, months, she realized: since she'd met Varric in Hightown and agreed to go in with him on raising the funds for the expedition. And somehow, in the process, she'd acquired not only a partner but a guard, a healer, a blood mage, a thief, and whatever Fenris was going to be. Even more to her surprise, she found she didn't mind.

She looked at Aveline with another shrug. "At least it won't be dull," she said. "Walk me back to the tavern, will you? I need to check with Varric, see how the ledger is looking."


	4. D is for Dolce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dolce- Italian: “Sweet”. A directive to musicians to perform the indicated passage of a composition sweetly, softly, or with tender emotion.

Carver waited until they had been on the road for an hour, the pillars of Kirkwall receding into the distance, before he dared to ask the question. He had been following Marissa as usual, a few paces behind, watching her back while scanning ahead for threats, but now he hopped forward to fall into step beside her, then cleared his throat. "Sister?"

She didn't turn or stop walking, but she did incline her head enough to show that she was listening. "What?"

 _Deep breaths now, it's too late for her to send you back._ "Why did you bring me?"

Marissa still didn't stop, but she did lift her chin up and back a bit to glare at him out of the corner of her eye, lifting an eyebrow.

"I'm not complaining, of course," Carver hastened to add. "I just didn't expect you to go against Mother like that."

"Hah." Marissa's mouth turned up into a half-sneer. "Since when have I done everything that Mother asked?"

"True." Carver chewed on the corner of his lip. "I guess -- well, she did give you an excuse to leave me behind. And I'm a little surprised that you didn't take it."

Marissa shook her head. "I brought you along on almost all the jobs I took to earn the coin, didn't I? And you more than pulled your weight. It would hardly have been fair to leave you out of the reward. You earned your place on this expedition. If you hadn't, you wouldn't be here, no matter what Mother wanted." She shrugged. "Besides, you're far less of an idiot than you used to be. Although I might re-evaluate that opinion if you keep asking stupid questions." 

"All right," Carver said. "Got it. And thanks."

She responded with the wave of her hand that meant she was finished with a conversation, and Carver fell back behind her, into his usual place in the formation. Soon, he found himself walking beside Anders, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "What is it?"

Anders glanced toward Marissa, then back at Carver. "I couldn't help overhearing. You don't have the friendliest relationship with your sister, do you?"

"Are you kidding?" Carver chuckled. "That's probably the sweetest thing she's ever said to me."

Anders raised an eyebrow. "Truly?"

Carver shrugged. "I'm exaggerating. But only a little. She's not much for showing affection, but when Marissa Hawke says you've earned your place with her, she means it."

"Huh." Anders looked at Marissa again. "Good to know." They walked along in silence, and the spring in Carver's step lasted all the way to their first sight of the caves.


	5. E is for Etude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Etude - French: “To study”. A piece of music designed as a musical and/or technical exercise.

With the prospect of days or weeks trapped in the Deep Roads, wandering the corridors and looking for a way out, Hawke had asked Anders to train her in healing magic. "You can't always be with me," she had said, "and I should be able to take care of things in an emergency." She didn't mention that it also would give her something to focus on other than how badly she wanted to throttle Bartrand, wring his thick neck with her bare hands.

Anders had looked at her, skeptical. "Spirit healing isn't the easiest practice to learn. How much experience do you have with creation magic?"

"A bit. It was my father's specialty," Hawke had answered; Anders had considered for a few moments, then nodded.

"All right. We can try. The first step is to strengthen your connection to the Fade, so we'll start with that."

He had given her a series of mental exercises, and she took to doing them as they walked through the tunnels. Hawke had spent very little time exploring the Fade with her conscious mind -- her father had drilled it into her and Bethany both that walking in the Fade was the quickest way to attract the attention of Templars and demons alike, faster even than blood magic. But Anders taught her a spell that would enable her to create a portal to that other realm while hiding her from malicious spirits. She would create the link and hold it open for a split second, then a bit longer, then even longer, stronger each time until she could make the connection and maintain it for half an hour at a time.

Creating the linkage was not difficult; it reminded Marissa of casting a glyph of paralysis or protection. Holding it open was the challenge, especially while on the move. It was odd, seeing the pale and colorless world of the Fade overlaid on the darkness of the Deep Roads. Strange, and tiring; when she had to switch gears for a fight against darkspawn, she was drained and distracted, and after a few days she began to worry that she wasn't pulling her weight. 

"How do you manage this?" she asked one night -- she supposed it was night, anyway, it was so easy to lose track in these blasted caves -- as she sat down by the tent that Varric had pitched. "It's much more draining than throwing bolts, or even maintaining most support spells."

"You get used to it," Anders said with a shrug. "My own connection to the Fade was naturally strong, so I'd just open it up at need. You'll eventually get to the point where you can do that, too. Either that, or you'll give up and move on to a different speciality." He winked at her. "That's what most of the Circle mages I knew did, anyway."

"Hmph." Hawke slumped back against a boulder, reaching up her hand for Carver to give her a bottle of water. She took a deep gulp, then looked at Anders, eyebrows raised. "Wait. You used the past tense."

"Yes, well." He shrugged. "I have to be more careful about visiting the Fade now, because of Justice. Our partnership gives me most of the same skills I had before, some even stronger. But it's not a method I would recommend."

"Never fear." Hawke sipped more of her water, set the bottle on the ground, and closed her eyes. "I have no interest in acquiring a passenger."

She could hear Anders's exasperated sigh. "It's not like that, you know, it's--"

Hawke waved him off. "Yes, I know. Tell me again another time." She took a deep breath, flexed her fingers, and began again, envisioning the small window to another world, keeping it open just for a second, then letting it go before opening it for a second longer. She would make this work. She could be a healer, just as good as Anders, or at least good enough to keep herself and her partners safe, without anyone else's help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written to work through a couple of gameplay vs. story issues: why does Anders have different spellcasting abilities than he had in Awakening, and why would an aggressive, combat-focused mage like Marissa Hawke be a Spirit Healer?


	6. F is for Fermata

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fermata - Italian: “Stop.” A musical notation indicating that the note or rest is to be held until the musician is released by the conductor. A beat taken out of time.

There is nothing that Marissa Hawke hates more than waiting. 

Too much of her life has been spent in a state of in-between: Being hustled into the cellar until the templars were safely past; twiddling her thumbs in the mercenary camp until the next job came along; ducking into bushes and trying not to breathe until the ambush was called; sitting at Father's bedside, his hand in hers until he released his last breath. To be powerless, caught up in events beyond her control, is the worst feeling in the world.

But this waiting is a thousand times worse, because there's nothing for Hawke to watch, no signal on the horizon. She can't listen for footsteps or look down the path for the enemy or study her father's face for signs. These events are happening hundreds of miles away, may even have already occurred, and meanwhile she has to carry on with business: selling the loot from the expedition, meeting with merchants and dealers and the agent who has promised to sell her the Amell mansion, without betraying a hint of her helpless frustration. 

And then every night it's back to Gamlen's house, and the cloud that hangs over every moment spent there. Gamlen's resentment is palpable, as is Leandra's grief and anger -- she never says the words "I told you so", but Hawke can see the rebuke in her mother's eyes. The three of them have frozen, unable to move forward or back, waiting for a sign that it's all right to breathe again. 

And then comes an afternoon some time after the end of the expedition -- five months, two weeks, three days, and five hours from the moment she first saw daylight again -- when Hawke walks into the Hanged Man and sees Aveline, elbows resting on the table. Anders sits next to her and toys with a white envelope, tapping its edge against the table; as Hawke comes closer, she sees that Aveline bears a letter as well. They look up and see her at the same time. Aveline smiles, but Anders jumps to his feet, nearly skittering out of restless skin. 

"I have news," he says.

"So do I." Aveline stands up as well. "Good news, which I asked the viscount if I could deliver personally."

Hawke looks back and forth between them. Anders is practically vibrating with nerves, so she turns to Aveline. "Good news first," she says.

Aveline nods, hands Hawke a stack of papers, folded in thirds. "I present the ownership papers for the Amell estate." Hawke takes the documents without opening them and slides them into her pack. "Or rather, the Hawke estate -- it's officially in your name now. That way your uncle can make no claim to it, if something happens. The originals are all filed with the viscount's office; these are your copies. Congratulations, Hawke."

"Thanks. Mother will be pleased." Hawke favors Aveline with a quick smile, then looks at Anders, still bouncing on his heels. "Given your expression in comparison to Aveline's, I can only assume your news is bad."

"It might be. This came by runner from the docks this morning." He hands out the envelope and Hawke takes it: there is no name, no salutation, only a seal set in silver wax: the griffon sigil of the Grey Wardens. Her breath stops, just for an instant, and she finds herself looking around for Varric, for Fenris, for a rock to lean on. She lifts her eyes, and Anders and Aveline are both looking back, faces filled with compassion, concern, and she remembers that both of them also have reason to care about the contents of this letter.

She cracks the seal and pulls out the letter and reads the words she has been waiting to see; she lets out a long slow breath and allows her shoulders to relax, just a little. "Carver survived the Joining. He's officially a Grey Warden."

Aveline smiles, her eyes lightening; Anders exhales all at once and collapses into his chair. "Thank the Maker!" He looks up at Hawke, wide-eyed. "If he had died anyway, I don't know that I would have ever been able to forgive myself." 

_You aren't the only one._ But Hawke only shakes her head and says what she has been unable to make herself say before: "Thank you, Anders. Thanks for saving him."

Anders sighs. "He may not thank me, in the end. But you're welcome."

Hawke folds the letter and puts it back in the envelope, but she finds she can't let it out of her hands. "Can one of you tell Varric the news? And the others? I need to go find Mother." Without waiting for acknowledgment, she turns to go, pushing through the door and into the street, ready for her life to finally start again.


	7. G is for Gloria

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gloria - Latin: “Glory.” The first word of the hymn “Gloria in Excelsis Deo”; The second movement of the Mass Ordinary; A song set to that text, usually a hymn of praise or celebration.

"Are you ready?" Hawke hefted her pack to her shoulder and turned to Leandra, who stood in the center of Gamlen's house, a small bag at her feet. That bag had contained all of Leandra's earthly possessions when they'd fled Lothering, not quite three years ago. Thanks to the gains from the Deep Roads expedition, they possessed rather more now. And Hawke was more than ready to start enjoying the fruits of those labors. She looked around the hovel with a wrinkle of her nose. Gamlen had given them somewhere to sleep, but it had never really been comfortable -- physically or otherwise. She wouldn't be sorry to see the backside of this place.

Leandra nodded and picked up her bag. "Although I'm not certain how much it will seem like home anymore. I wish you had let me oversee the renovations."

Hawke held the door open for her mother, then let it close behind her without a glance back. "You had enough to do, what with scouring every antique seller and pawnshop within a hundred leagues for Amell family heirlooms." 

"I can't believe how much I was able to recover!" Leandra shook her head as she walked down the stairs. "So many things I had thought gone forever." She glanced at Hawke. "That set of silver chalices disappeared even before I left Kirkwall. Mother always suspected the footman of stealing them. What a stroke of luck, that your contacts found them in Amaranthine."

Hawke only responded with a shrug. Luck had played almost no role in that find, or most any of the others. With Varric and Isabela's help, she had put the word out that top dollar would be paid for any item legitimately stamped with the Amell crest -- and that creating fakes would not be looked upon with favor. Amazing what a lot of coin and a little muscle could bring you. For herself, Hawke would not have bothered; it seemed ridiculous, almost offensive, to spend that much money on a silver cup when a newer one of better make could be had in the Hightown markets for half the price. But it seemed to make Leandra happy, and she'd had little enough to be happy about these past few years. Recovering her family's legacy was the least Hawke could do.

They walked through the streets of Lowtown, past the hillside district where most of Kirkwall's merchant class and skilled artisans lived, and up the stairs to Hightown. "You're sure everything is ready?" Leandra asked as they approached the front door. "The roof is patched, all our new things delivered?"

"Yes, Mother," Hawke replied, suppressing a sigh of irritation. "We wouldn't be moving if it weren't finished." She stepped aside and let Leandra go into the courtyard first. 

Leandra paused there for a moment, touching the top of a shrub, rubbing a leaf of the decorative maple tree between her fingers. "You contracted the viscount's gardner like I suggested?" Hawke nodded. "Good. That bench is new."

There might have been a touch of suspicion in Leandra's tone; Hawke did her best to ignore it. "The original was beyond repair, but the gardner assured me this one would suit. Would you like to see the inside?"

"All right." Hawke unlocked the door and pushed it open, and Leandra walked in behind her. They passed through the foyer without comment, but upon entering the main hall, Leandra's footsteps suddenly stopped, and Hawke thought she heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Mother?" Hawke turned around to see Leandra stopped dead, hand over her mouth, looking up at the ceiling. "Are you all right?"

She slowly dropped her hand. "The chandelier. Look at it."

Dutifully, Hawke followed her mother's gaze, up to the vaulted ceiling. The chandelier was the original, made of iron but plated with copper and hung with crystal. It had been badly tarnished and broken, so Hawke had seen it repaired, the missing crystals replaced, the copper burnished until it shone. The late afternoon sun fell in beams through the upper windows, catching the crystal droplets to scatter rainbows over the walls and floor. The effect was attractive, if a bit fussy for Hawke's tastes. "Do you like it?" she asked. 

"It's just like it was," Leandra murmured. "And the stair rail, and the tapestries, the fireplace... It was all in such terrible disrepair."

Hawke nodded. "The slavers who were squatting here did a number on it. It took a lot of labor and even more coin to put it all back."

"And worth every copper." Leandra made a slow circuit around the room, examining every surface, touching the carvings, running her hand along the bannister. She stopped by the fireplace and looked at Hawke with bright eyes. "Thank you, dear girl. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

"You're welcome." Hawke paused, considered saying something more, but she'd never been much good at expressing emotions to her mother. So instead she just gestured toward the stairs. "Do you want to choose a bedroom?" 

Leandra looked at Hawke for a moment longer, a soft smile on her face. "I'll take my old room. Show me what you've done with them?" 

Hawke allowed herself a quick smile back. "Right. This way."


	8. H is for Harmony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harmony - The combination of notes sounded simultaneously to produce chords

"Sst!" Isabela let out the soft sound that always meant the same thing: enemies ahead. Hawke stepped aside, out of any possible line of fire, her back against the boulders that lined this trail along of the Wounded Coast. She had planned a simple trip to retrieve a rare herb for Lady Elegant, but between smugglers, slavers, and Tal-Vashoth, somehow these jaunts never turned out according to plan. 

Meanwhile, the others took their places -- Fenris drew his sword and dropped into a ready crouch, all in one smooth motion; Varric took a spot opposite Hawke, well-concealed on the other side of the path, and loaded Bianca; Isabela crept forward, her eyes sweeping the ground for traps and the sky for ambush. Soon, she dropped to one knee, poking at something only she could see. A tripwire, most likely, since she pulled a post out of the dirt and tossed it into the bushes, and now Hawke could see the thin wire that had lain across the trail as it fell to the ground, kicking up a soft puff of dust where it landed. Meanwhile, Isabela had taken a few more quiet steps away, peeking around the corner. Whatever she saw made her freeze, then duck back. She caught Fenris's eye and raised an eyebrow; when he responded with a nod, she drew her daggers and charged around the corner, yelling, Fenris running behind with his sword already raised in the air. Hawke waited a split second, then stepped out into the middle of the path, elbow-to-shoulder with Varric to see what enemy they might be facing.

It was Tal-Vashoth this time, about a dozen of them, most likely mercenaries, gathered in a small knot in one of the campsites that dotted this part of the coast. Varric squared his shoulders and planted his feet to fire, and Hawke slashed her staff downward as she cast her first spell: a pulse of gravity that knocked the kossith on their backs. By the time they were back to their feet, Isabela had flanked the leader and Fenris was into the vanguard, sword slashing downwards as he finished a graceful leap. 

And then the battle began in earnest: Varric felling enemies with well-placed shots while keeping an eye out for potential reinforcements, Hawke firing her own type of bolts, energy and lightning intermingled with the occasional force wave, Fenris cutting a swath with his blade, Isabela darting in and out of the fray. Here a stab, there a sweep, followed by a volley of crossbow bolts. Hawke closed her hand into a fist, dropping one of the kossith to the ground, and Fenris had his head off before he could recover his footing; then Fenris brought up the pommel of his sword and struck another enemy across the face, and while he was still reeling, Isabela came up behind him and slid a dagger between his ribs. No words were spoken, no overt signals passed, simply teamwork born from years of practice, fighting together until the last man was down.

It was only then, as Hawke and Varric went to join their teammates and Isabela started stripping the bodies of their valuables, that Hawke finally figured out the change she had noticed throughout the battle but had no time to comprehend: Varric was humming, and had been from the moment the Tal-Vashoth first appeared. "Are you... singing?" she asked.

"Ah, Hawke, you've stumbled onto my new secret," he answered. "I call that particular tune 'Bianca's Song'. Set the tale to music the other day."

Hawke stared down at him. "You write music?"

He shrugged, a gesture of false modesty. "Just another of my many talents. I can assure you, Hawke, that you've only begun to scratch the surface of Varric Tethras."

"If you say so. But why are you humming it now?"

"Does wonders for the concentration," Varric replied, then grinned. "You ought to try it sometime."

"And you think I have issues with concentration?" Hawke raised an eyebrow, and Varric laughed.

"If anything, you go too far the other way. You're one of the most intense people I've ever known." He shook his head, still smiling. "But for myself, anyway, yes, it helps. Music to go with the dancing."

Isabela popped up next to him with a laugh. "Just make sure it's not my last dance, dwarf, and you can sing whatever tune you like." She nudged him with her arm, then opened her hands, a shower of coin and a few gold rings falling into his rucksack. "This area's clear. Shall we move on to the next?"

Hawke gestured her assent, then walked forward, the clinking of silvers in the bag setting a counterpoint to Varric's melody as they continued on.


	9. I is for Intermezzo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intermezzo - Italian: “Intermediary.” A short movement or interlude connecting the main parts of a composition.

The stars hung in the blue-black sky and a light breeze blew off the harbor as Hawke and Fenris mounted the stairs back into Hightown. It had been a late night of drinks at the Hanged Man; when the party had broken up, Hawke and Fenris left at the same time as they often did, in unspoken agreement that they would walk each other home.

It was a matter of convenience, Hawke told herself, nothing more. She and Fenris were neighbors, so it was only logical for them to make this walk together, nothing to do with anything else. She had, over the years, made various attempts to get closer to him -- share banter, drop hints regarding her interest -- but light flirtation was simply not in her nature. She'd much rather have flat out asked him to spend the night, but something in the set of his shoulders stopped her from taking the direct route. Even though she'd caught him looking at her, every so often, the subtlest of sparks in his eyes. 

But she told herself no; if he hadn't responded to her advances after three years, most likely it was never to be. Instead, they were friendly, though Hawke would have been hard pressed to call him a friend, not when he still vibrated with suspicion toward her magic. More accurate to say congenial. Comfortable. Able to walk like this, together, in silent company. It was refreshing, really, to be with someone who didn't feel the need to fill the air with idle talk. 

She cast a quick look in his direction, admired his profile, the way the moonlight caught his pale hair. There had been no other man in Kirkwall to catch her eye quite so well as Fenris. Not, she thought with a silent snort, for her mother's lack of trying. And sometimes she thought Anders... but no. Attractive as he was, she would never pursue him, not with Justice hanging over both of their heads. Better to be alone than with the wrong person. And if the right person never came along, there was always The Blooming Rose.

At the top of the stairs, she paused and then turned around, looking out over the sleeping city. Candles burning in Lowtown windows, ships creaking in the docks, the Gallows looming across the water. Her eye was drawn to the Qunari compound, shut up tight against the heathens and the night. Sometimes she wondered what the Arishok was doing behind those walls. What was he plotting? What was he waiting for? 

She heard a soft footstep and turned to see Fenris standing next to her, scanning the horizon. "Everything all right?"

Hawke nodded. "Just thinking." She glanced at him, and he looked back. "Do you ever feel like we're in a lull between storms? Sitting in the stillness, holding our breath and waiting for something to happen?"

Lifting his eyes higher, head turning just to the north, Fenris laughed beneath his breath; it was not a happy sound. "I'm always waiting," he said, and Hawke knew that he looked in the direction of Tevinter. 

She glanced at the Qunari compound again, then turned around to face the Viscount's Keep and the Chantry, its tower presiding over the city like a stern mother. She had received a great deal of correspondence today -- invitations to parties, requests for aid, the first letter from Carver in almost a year, and at the bottom of the stack, like a bomb waiting to go off, a summons from Viscount Dumar. But no point dwelling on that. She'd already weathered the storm of a lifetime; what was a little official interference, compared to a Blight? She would survive. She always did. With a little nod to Fenris, she started for home again, and he followed, just a step behind.


	10. J is for Jig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jig - A lively dance.

The guests circled through the parlor and the foyer and spilled into the courtyard, a steady hum of conversation filling all the spaces between. Hawke stood above the fray, at the rail on the mezzanine, dressed in her lavender silks, the one concession she had made to her mother and this Maker-blighted party. She balanced a carved crystal champagne flute in one hand, her tight smile focused on the passers-by. Hopefully none of them would venture up here. 

"Having fun?" Hawke turned toward Varric as he came off the top step, Aveline right behind him, and she amended her thought: none but for these two. Her business partner and the Guard-Captain were the only friends Hawke had thought it prudent to invite, along with her newest acquaintance: Sebastian Vael, prince of Starkhaven, who was downstairs now, chatting with the ladies of Hightown, his courtly manners on full display. When Hawke had introduced Sebastian to her mother, the naked ambition rising in Leandra's eyes had been a sight to see; the crestfallen look that replaced it when she learned that he was sworn to Andraste had almost made up for losing an evening to social niceties and inane chatter. 

Hawke smiled again at the memory, then scowled as she responded with a shake of her head. "You know I hate these things. So formal, so dull, no one ever saying what they really think."

"Just another evening in Hightown," Varric said. "But you know, Hawke, if you intend to go into business for yourself, it means more soirées like this, not fewer."

"Don't remind me." Hawke crossed her arms and looked out over the throng, which had ceased its aimless milling about in favor of forming up into lines: women on one side of the room, men on the other, the musicians in the corner tuning their instruments, as Leandra directed traffic with help from the ushers she had hired for the night -- she had gotten used to Bodahn for every day, but for parties only the best-trained elven servants would do. "And now the dancing. My favorite." She slid away from the railing, using Aveline to shield her from her mother's probing eye, and Aveline complied, moving in front of her to watch the dancers. 

"Rather different than dancing in Ferelden," she remarked. "All that bowing and formal footwork. Seems almost Orlesian." She watched a moment longer, then shook her head. "I'm not much of a dancer, but give me the casual, energetic joy of a country dance any time. What about you, Hawke? Do you miss the barn dances in Lothering?"

Hawke grunted, crossing her arms. "Neither is the kind of dancing I'm interested in." Varric snickered, and she rolled her eyes. "Get your mind out the gutter. You're almost as bad as Isabela. I don't mean that, either. I'm talking about a good honest fight."

Varric looked up at her with a raised eyebrow. "Like the one you gave up to come here?"

Hawke scowled again, but she felt a pang of guilt at the reminder. This morning, on their way back from a trip to the mine, they had been ambushed by slave hunters, searching for Fenris on behalf of his old master's apprentice; Fenris had been angry that she wouldn't go after the magister right then and there, but she would never have made it back to Kirkwall in time. Much as she didn't want to be at this party, even less did she want to face her mother's lectures on the subject of keeping up family appearances. Hadriana had come this far to track Fenris down; she'd still be there in a few days. As soon as Hawke had time, she would help him, and all would be forgiven. Or so Hawke kept telling herself. 

But she could never admit all that, not even to Varric, so she glared at him instead. "I had my reasons. Besides, it's not as though Fenris would drop everything to help if Templars were hunting _me_ down."

Varric glanced at Aveline, who shook her head with a smile. "What gives you that idea?" she asked. "He's never hesitated to fight them for you before. Never mind Templars; I suspect he'd go to the ends of the earth for you, if you asked."

It was a truth Hawke found herself unwilling to admit, and she looked at the floor to hide the flush that she felt rising to her cheeks. "We'll go soon," she muttered. "Tomorrow, or the day after." She tossed back the rest of the champagne and set the glass on a nearby table. "For now, I should get down there -- Mother will throw a fit if I don't dance at least one set." She caught Sebastian's eye, and he responded with a nod; she could not imagine a dance partner more different than the one she actually wanted, and for now, that seemed perfect.


	11. K is for Key

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Key - The principal tonality of a composition; the scale or chord progression around which a composition is based. If a performer or work is out of tune, they are often said to be “off key”.

Fenris swung his sword over the last hunter's neck, cutting his head clear off, then tossed the weapon aside as he turned to Hawke with a snarl. "I told you we needed to go after her right away!"

He was right, and Hawke knew it, had known for days. It hadn't taken this ambush in the market to tell her that refusing his request to hunt down Hadriana immediately after her first attack was a mistake; the guilt that had eaten at her ever since was sufficient. But few things came less naturally to Hawke than admitting that she was wrong, much less apologizing for her errors, so instead she sheathed her staff and closed her arms. "Calm down," she snapped.

"Calm down? Calm down?!" Fenris stalked over to her, face twisted into a mask of rage. "This is my life, Hawke! It can no longer wait on your _convenience_." He injected so much sarcasm and bile into the last word that it was all Hawke could do not to wince. "They will never stop coming until I am dead, or until she is. And if you do not come with me now, tonight, then I'm going without you, and to hell with you all."

Hawke narrowed her eyes and glared at him. "I don't like being given orders."

He neither flinched nor looked away. "So I am on my own, then. As ever."

"I didn't say that." Hawke glanced at Isabela and Varric, one at at either elbow, and they both nodded. "We'll go; I just need to stop by the mansion for supplies first. We'll get your Hadriana, wherever she might be."

-x-

The trip to the Wounded Coast was silent, awkward; Isabela and Varric had both attempted to strike up conversation, but every effort fell flat, caught in the awkward spaces between Fenris and Hawke, trapped by their ragged edges as they rubbed against each other. Instead, they fought their way up the hillside, past the guards Hadriana had set -- evidence, at least, that she was still here. When they reached the entrance to the holding caves, Fenris paused, sniffed the air, knelt by the remains of a campfire to examine the ashes. Then he stood and looked at Hawke with a nod. "She will be within. Guarded by her men, and her shades. We must be cautious."

"Oh, we're always cautious," said Varric, cheerful. Fenris tossed him a grumpy look, but he only grinned back. "Lead on, elf."

Once inside, tensions eased, but only slightly -- each shade, all the evidence of blood sacrifice, caused Fenris to look at her sideways, until Hawke nearly threw her hands up in despair. "When have I ever used blood magic?" she wanted to shout. "When have I so much as hinted at temptation?" Hawke had considered many methods to increase her skills, but blood magic had never held the slightest appeal. No demon was ever going to get the best of _her_. 

And so her irritation grew, and though she tried not to let it show, it must have, because Fenris snapped and snarled at her every move, even those she thought would garner his approval, like giving the elf girl her freedom, or vowing that Hadriana would see death for her crimes. But still, when he rose from the magister's body, her blood dripping from his hands to stain the floor, he looked so confused and dejected that it hurt, as surely as if he'd wrapped his hand around her heart, ready to squeeze. Every instinct told her that speaking would be a bad idea, but she couldn't help herself; she stepped forward, close enough to take his hand and pull him out of the darkness that clouded him, and cleared her throat. "Do-- do you want to talk about it?"

He whirled on his heel and lifted his chin, glaring at her through the shock of white hair that fell over his blood-spattered face. "No!" he shouted. "I don't want to talk about it!" He chopped his hand through the air as he advanced on her, eyes narrowed and snapping. "This could be a trap. Danarius could have sent Hadriana here to tell me about this so-called sister. Even if he didn't, trying to find her would still be suicide. Danarius has to know about her, and he has to know that Hadriana knows." He shook his head. "I can't-- it doesn't matter." His voice dipped into a dangerous growl. "All that matters is that I finally got to crush that bitch's heart. May she rot, and all other mages with her."

Hawke sucked air between her teeth. A second ago, she had wanted to soothe him, to try and assuage his pain, his anger. But the stark reminder that, no matter how well they had learned to get along, he still carried a bone-deep hatred of her kind, was too much, and she responded with coldness instead. "Don't forget who you're talking to."

He looked at her, and the fury still burned in his eyes. "I haven't forgotten," he bit back. "How could I? You saw what was done here. There will always be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this."

"Other mages," she retorted, and crossed her arms. "Not me."

Fenris laughed, a harsh and ugly sound, bouncing off the cave walls like bells ringing out of tune. "Ah yes, the mighty Hawke, always the exception to every rule." 

It was calculated to further annoy her, and it worked, but still Hawke checked her emotions with a reminder that Fenris was acting out of bitter experience, not irrational prejudice. She would be the bigger person here, even if it killed her. "We can still look for your sister."

"And who's going to look for her? You?" Fenris threw his arms wide and his scowl deepened. "Even if we found her, who knows what the magisters have done to her. What has magic ever touched that it doesn't spoil?"

Finally it was too much; Hawke's anger surged with a blinding white heat, the cauldron that had simmered between them for the past week, for the past three years, threatening to boil over at last. She felt the Fade yawn open inside her, the words of a binding spell rise to her throat, and it was only the light touch of Varric's hand to her elbow that stopped her from speaking them. She shut her lips tight together and looked away, taking slow deep breaths to control her emotions and close the gate. When she was ready, she met Varric's worried gaze with a nod, and his shoulders lowered in relief.

Fenris saw, he must have seen, her fight for control, because when she looked at him again, the fire bled from his eyes as he turned away and brought a hand to his forehead. "I... need to go," he muttered, and then he stomped out; Isabela looked at him, then at Hawke, and started to follow, but Hawke blocked her with an outstretched arm.

"Let him go," she said, the remains of her anger gone, replaced by a curious aching sadness. It reminded her, somehow, of watching Carver as he was carried away by the Grey Wardens, in a cave not so different from this one. "We've hurt each other enough for one day." She turned toward a different exit than the one Fenris had used, and wondered if she would ever see him again.


	12. L is for Legato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legato - Italian: “Bound”. A directive to connect the notes of a passage together, smoothly and with no breaks between them.

"I have been thinking of you. In fact, I've thought of little else." 

In the caves, after Hadriana, Fenris had walked away; Hawke worried, in that moment, that she might never see him again, but he returned to her in her courtyard the next night, and though it was not the ideal reunion, she felt the first glimmerings of hope that the fragile connection she had begun to build with him hadn't been severed forever. Three days later, she visited him at the mansion, and they came closer to an understanding than ever before. He told her the story of his escape from slavery, shared a piece of himself that he had never let another person touch; she had earned his trust, and that moved her, somewhere in the places that she keeps walled away. Afterwards, he sent her away, but gently, letting her believe that he might let his own gates fall someday soon.

And now he is here, less than a day later, looking up from beneath a shock of white hair that falls over his eyes, blazing with a desire that takes her breath away. "Ask me to leave, and I shall." But his expression belies his words; no, it says, I cannot leave, I'll never leave. He wants, he needs her to unlock the door to her heart, to take him by the hand and pull him inside.

And so she meets his gaze with a half smile and kicks the door wide open. "Did I say anything?"

He pauses only a second longer before sweeping her into his arms and pressing his mouth to hers. This, yes, this is what she has wanted, what she has longed for, and she's not letting him get away again; when he pulls back, just for a moment, she turns him around and pins him up against the wall. He raises his head, eyes wide, and sucks in a breath. She presses into him, heedless of the sharp edges of his armor against her skin as she kisses him again, and again, and again, a series of kisses blending together into a seamless whole. 

There is nothing in the whole world but Fenris: the heat of his mouth, the strength of his embrace, his soft moans as his hands grip the fabric of her dress. Tilting her head to the side, her lips part, and he responds in kind, a hand moving up her back to bury itself in her hair, her hands pressing hard into the rough brick to keep herself standing. She wants to stand here and kiss him forever, but even more she wants him upstairs in her bed, and so she breaks away, leans her forehead to his, noses touching. "Shall we take this inside?"

"Lead the way," he replies, his voice low and rumbling in his chest, vibrating down to her toes, and she kisses him again, takes his lower lip between hers. After two kisses more, she steps away and takes his hand, and, walking backwards, pulls him through through the doorway, into the foyer, past the empty living room. Hawke breathes a silent word of thanks that her mother is already asleep and that she sent Bodahn off duty for the night as they stop at the base of the stairs and kiss again, his arms winding around her neck, her head pressing back against the wall, his tongue plunging into her mouth. 

Then his lips glide away, trailing kisses across her cheek, to her jawbone, before moving down the side of her neck. Her hands wrap into his hair, so much softer and sleeker than she had imagined it, and then she runs a finger along the underside of his ear and around to the tip. His mouth pauses in its exploration of her jawline, and he lets out a sigh, his warm breath tickling the delicate skin beneath her chin.

"Don't stop," she murmurs into his ear. She kisses it, ever so lightly, and he shivers. It is torment to let him go, but the promise of their goal propels her forward, their hands locked together as she leads him up the stairs, his breath warm on the back of her neck. She pulls the bedroom door shut behind her, unfastens her dress and pulls it off in one smooth motion, and then she turns around to see that Fenris is already halfway out of his breastplate, gauntlets thrown into a pile on the floor. 

Without a word, she stands in front of him and help him undo the buckles; then she pulls off his undershirt and his bare chest is revealed to her at last, the white whorls of his markings that begin on his chin and lead down his neck, swirling up his arms, intricately weaving together over his breastbone. She has seen the patterns before, of course, glowing brightly through his armor during battle, but it is different to observe them like this, up close and quiescent. They accent the lines of his musculature, making him all the more beautiful, but she dares not to tell him so; instead, she lays her hands on his shoulders and kisses him again, pressing up against his bare chest. She can feel him trembling under her touch, and she stops, meets his eyes. "Too much?" she asks, mindful of his earlier words about the pain of the markings.

He shakes his head. "Never enough," he murmurs, and he brings his mouth to hers, swift and sure and devouring, taking her breath away. She winds her hands around his neck and swirls her tongue around his, bringing it into the dance. His hands are around her back, unfastening her breastband, and then the undergarment joins the gauntlets and breastplate and dress on the floor. She pulls back with a small smile, presenting her breasts to him, and he accepts the offer, bringing a hand around one, stroking its underside, running a thumb over the nipple, and breathing out, eyes bright with longing. Her own hands come up his shoulders to curve around his neck, her thumbs landing on the brands that end just beneath his ears, and she raises her eyebrows, looking at him. "May I?" He nods, and she traces the markings down the sides of his neck to where they branch out over his chest. The lines are raised from the rest of his skin, just slightly, with the strange smoothness of scar tissue; she can feel the tantalizing buzz of the lyrium just underneath, whispering, crackling, surging in time with his beating heart. It calls to her, luring her with its power, she can't even guess what calling on it would do to him, so instead she taps into the magic she carries within herself, allowing just the slightest touch of a healing spell to rise to her fingertips. 

"Ohhh." Fenris's head tips backwards, his eyes fall shut, his hands tighten around her breasts, and Hawke smiles. She fastens her lips on his neck and tastes a hint of lyrium, the slightest snap of bitterness on the tip of her tongue. Together they move toward the bed, together they sink down to the mattress and remove the last of Fenris's armor, and then he leans her back, back, still kissing, still touching, still running hands over now-bared skin, working off her smalls, then his, no more barriers between them at all. 

Fenris lowers his mouth to her breast as she cups a hand around one perfect buttock, pulling him closer, her fingers following the tracks that the lyrium markings weave up his back. His tongue finds her nipple and covers it, moving back in forth in a slow rhythm, the shivers leading straight down her spine and lower, to her center; she feels her heat starting to rise, and she sighs. Her hand finds his stiffening cock and curls around it, first to feel its size, its weight, and then to squeeze and to stroke, and his moans vibrate against her breast. A hand runs down her side before landing on her belly, fingers splayed wide, gently kneading, before slipping downward over her mound, a finger slipping into her cleft to find the heat and wet within. She knows she is ready for him even before she feels how easily he slides against her nub, into her core, and she raises her hips to meet each stroke. 

"Hawke," he groans, and she grips him tighter before rolling them both over so that she straddles him. A few more strokes of her hand and up and down his cock, and then she shifts and sheathes him in one single smooth motion, sighing at the pleasure of joining. Her hands glide up his chest while his settle on her hips, and for a moment she just rests there, nestled against him, feeling him buried inside. His eyes meet hers, and she cannot look away, drawn to the fires that dance there. He says her name again, more softly this time, filled with the wonder she sees written on his face, that she knows to be mirrored on her own. She leans down and he rears up, their mouths coming together in a long, slow kiss; as he strokes her lips and tongue, she begins to move over him, sliding up and down his shaft, his own hips rocking to meet her motion. 

Every move is together, every touch together, his hands drawing circles on her back, her fingertips echoing the patterns on his cheeks and around his ears. First slow, languid, luxurious, and then she shifts, and gasps as she finds her spot, surprised into breaking the kiss as the first wave begins to build. His eyes widen, then close as he thrusts more deeply, changing the angle, and she throws her head back, the pleasure building, release still a distant goal but coming tantalizingly closer. Still they move together, but faster now, harder; she bites her lip to keep from crying out, one more thrust, one more twist and then she is over, off the cliff, writhing as the release courses through her, and she feels him follow her, his eyes wide open again and locked onto hers, filled with awe and surprise and something that almost looks like fear. Then he lets out his breath all at once and collapses, his head falling into the pillow, and she collapses onto his chest, kissing him, clinging as the last of her trembling subsides.

The tremors ebb, and they are replaced by heaviness, a luxurious weight in every limb. She slides off his cock and to his side, then burrows into his neck, kissing one of the lyrium scars, the whisper of magic with his pulse coursing strong beneath. His lips brush her forehead and his arms come around her; he pulls her tight and whispers something, but it is lost as she drifts into sleep, secure in his regard at last.


	13. M is for Modulate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Modulate - To change from one key or tonality to another.

"So you believe in the Circles? You would have mages imprisoned for no other crime than being mages?" Anders's eyes snapped with anger, but at least that spirit didn't seem on the verge of popping out again. Hawke wasn't sure she could take him in that state.

But it remained only Anders, and so she glared back. "Do I have to say it? No, Anders, I don't believe mages should be locked up. I'm not a hypocrite. But if they're not strong enough or smart enough to get out, or to keep from being caught in the first place..."

Anders's hands balled into fists at his side. "And if they weren't lucky enough to have parents who sacrificed everything to keep their children free?"

Hawke shrugged. "You escaped. So did my father. I fail to see how it becomes my problem if others are unable to do the same."

"Systematic injustice is everyone's problem," Anders replied, lifting his chin high. "We should all be doing everything we can to stop the Chantry, end the abuses of the Templars, free our brothers and sisters from their chains."

"And put a target on my own back?" Hawke raised her eyebrows and shook her head. "No thanks. Come on, Carver, we're done here."

-x-

It was not a conversation Hawke thought much of at the time, but every so often it would come back to her, buzzing around at the edge of her conscience like a mental mosquito. Most often on days like this one, when an errand took her into the Gallows courtyard.

Hawke did her best to avoid the Gallows, but occasionally a trip across the water became impossible to avoid. She always took precautions: changing into her least obvious robes, selecting a staff with a spear edge, bringing Isabela or Varric to watch her back while leaving Anders and Merrill at home, but she still got in and out as quickly as possible. On this particular day, her purpose was a visit to Sol -- she didn't know the going price for a varterral's heart, but it had to be high -- and as she walked through the courtyard, she caught notice of Alain standing in the corner of the archway. She exchanged nods with him, then recognized his companion: Grace, the leader of the Starkhaven mages she had helped to escape a cave on the Wounded Coast, over three years ago now. 

After a quick look to ensure that no Templars were watching, she sidled up to them. "What are you doing here?"

Blue eyes stared death back at her. "They caught us, of course. What did you expect to happen when you left a bunch of Circle mages to their own devices in the middle of nowhere? Whatever scheme you cooked up with your pal Thrask didn't gain us much. We were tracked down and captured within a week."

"He's not my pal," Hawke snapped, crossing her arms. Still, she felt a stab of unease. Grace was tough and seemed capable; she ought to have been able to lead her people to safety.

"Could have fooled me." Grace snorted, looked Hawke up and down. "How else is it that you're able to run free throughout Kirkwall?"

Hawke stepped close to Grace and met her eyes, stone-faced. "I've spent my whole life free. And it's not because of any special 'relationship' with the Templars. I'm smart, I'm strong, and I know when to lay low. That's all it takes."

Grace did not look away. "If you say so."

"I do." Hawke stared her down a moment longer, then stepped back, ready to return to her errand; if Anders's voice whispered in the back of her head, reminding her of the advantages she enjoyed, she could ignore it just like she always did. "We're done here."

-x-

"Thank you, Serah Hawke. Thank you so much!" The girl -- Ella -- wrung her hands together. "You saved me from Ser Alrik and the demon both."

"He's not a demon," Hawke replied. "He's just-- confused. But you're welcome."

"I only wish I had some way to repay you."

Hawke glanced down at the note she had taken from Alrik's body, then back over her shoulder at her companions. Aveline and Sebastian would want her to take the girl back to the Circle. And perhaps she should; perhaps Ella would be just as helpless on her own as Grace and Feynriel had been. But... maybe she didn't have to be. Hawke thought back on the letter she had received from Mistress Selby and tossed aside, leaving it on her desk with the junk mail. What she had told Anders about not wanting to put a target on her back was still true, but… Grace was captured, Feynriel made Tranquil -- at his own request, but Hawke still wondered, sometimes, if she had failed him, too. She would not fail this time. "Is it safe for you to go home?" she asked.

"My mother lives here, but I can't stay," Ella said, mournful. "That's where the Templars took me from, when I was a girl. She can't protect me for long."

Hawke nodded, then stepped close to the girl, keeping her voice low enough that the others wouldn't hear her. "Go to Mistress Selby on the docks. She can get you someplace safe."

"Yes." Ella looked up at Hawke, eyes shining with gratitude and relief. "I'll go say goodbye to Mother first. Thank you, again." Hawke watched her scurry up the stairs and out of Darktown; behind her, Aveline cleared her throat.

"Are you certain that was wise?"

"After this?" Hawke shook Alrik's letter, the rustling of the parchment loud in her ears. "This threat may be gone, but if she goes back, she's a target for others. I'm not subjecting any mage to that kind of life."

"But surely that letter is proof that Elthina and Knight-Commander Meredith are reasonable people," Sebastian said. "You can see that Ser Alrik's mad scheme was rejected."

Hawke looked at Sebastian, back at the letter, remembered that night, long ago, when she had tried to rescue Anders's friend Karl and found him ruined instead, made Tranquil for the sin of talking back. She thought of Ella, blessed with a loving family but without the resources to run and hide. Perhaps she was the one who had been mad, instead, to not see the truth for so long. "This time, yes. Next time? Who can say?" She shook her head. "Thank you both for your help. I need to show this to Anders." And then perhaps take him to meet with Mistress Selby. It was time to get started.


	14. N is for Nocturne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nocturne - A composition, usually a serenade, to be played at night in the open air.

Hawke managed to avoid Fenris for three weeks. 

It had been humiliating, really, his abrupt departure that night. She tried to block it out, but the scene kept replaying in her head: the desolation in his voice, his elegant hands worrying at a red scarf -- Bethany's scarf, the one she hadn't been able to bring herself to discard but kept tied to her bedpost instead -- how quickly he had walked away, his head hanging. Part of her had wanted to follow him, drag him back inside, make him see reason; the rest of her thought it might be better to never see him again. But neither of these extremes had felt right, so she followed a middle path: going about her business as usual, just not happening to be wherever he was. 

She could have kept it up for longer -- indefinitely, she told herself -- but then one evening she walked into the Hanged Man with Isabela and Merrill, and he was already there, sharing a drink with Aveline and Varric. Too obvious to turn and leave, and besides she suspected Isabela would have purposefully blocked her way (she hadn't told them, of course, but somehow they all seemed to know; how had they wormed their way so deeply into her business?). And so, after taking a silent deep breath, she approached the table. He looked up, and she thought a stab of panic came into his eyes, but then he simply nodded, calm. 

"Hawke."

"Hello, Fenris," she replied, nodding in return. "Varric, Aveline." She took a seat halfway around the table, but not directly across from him, and waved over the bartender. 

The meal passed without incident, until Aveline left early. So when the time came to depart, she found Fenris at her side, walking her back to Hightown as he had so often done before. She expected it to be awkward, but somehow it was not -- the tension that had always danced between them still existed, but it was smoother, eased by familiarity. She no longer had to wonder what it would feel like to kiss him, or to agonize over whether he would ever respond to her advances. All those questions were answered; even if they had been replaced by others, she found she could relax around him now.

Halfway through the market, he stopped and turned around to face her. The moon was full, and it lit him from behind, catching his pale hair and giving him the same eerie blue aura as the lyrium. "Hawke," he said, took a breath to continue, and then stopped, looking down at the ground, eyes hidden by the fall of hair. "I am-- it is good to see you. And I hope that you will still call on me, if you require my aid."

Her gaze fell on a flash of red: the scarf, now tied around his right gauntlet. And there was a small shield at his belt that she had never seen before, bearing the Amell crest -- where had he gotten that? Why... but she stopped herself from asking. The peace between them was comfortable, but it was fragile, too -- if she tugged on the threads too much, they might unravel completely, and she would hate that more than anything. Better to have him as an ally than not to have him at all. "Of course," she said with a nod.

"Good." He let out a small sigh of relief. "You're a good leader, and I enjoy following you." As if to prove the point, he fell back into step beside her, and they continued on, up the steps toward her mansion, the silence now companionable again, comfortable, pleasant. When they reached her door, they stopped again; he turned and studied her face, almost as if to lean in for a kiss, but he took a step back instead. "Good night, Hawke."

"Good night." She turned to the door, rested her hand on the handle, then looked over her shoulder, struck by an idea. "Fenris?"

He paused. "Yes?"

"Would you like to resume reading lessons? Tomorrow night, perhaps?"

She thought his breath caught, before he turned back to look at her with a shrug, nonchalant. "If you don't mind."

"Not at all. I'll see you then." He nodded, then left; she watched him go, his soft footsteps echoing in the empty courtyard.


	15. O is for Overture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Overture - An introductory movement at the start of a longer work. Usually presents themes and motifs to be heard later in the composition.

Marissa Hawke received very few summons from her mother, so she would never dare ignore a note left on her upstairs desk. After checking the parlor, the kitchen, and the bedroom, she eventually discovered Leandra in the solar watering the flowers; Hawke cleared her throat, and Leandra turned. "Yes, Mother? What did you need?"

"Will you be coming with me to the Warrinors' party tomorrow?" 

Hawke raised an eyebrow, then shook her head. This was the important news that couldn't wait? "I hadn't been planning on it."

"Consider changing your plans." Leandra set down the watering can. "They have two sons, about your age. And I know several other Hightown bachelors who will be there."

Hawke groaned. "Are you still on this?"

"Yes, Marissa, I am." Leandra folded her arms, eyes hardening into a stern glare. That expression would have cowed Hawke into submission, once; it almost worked again now. "It is well past time for you to settle down and get married. If this family's legacy is to continue..."

Her voice trailed off, leaving Bethany's ghost and Carver's memory to hang between them, caught in the sunbeams that poured through the glass roof, made more tangible by Leandra's unwillingess to speak their names. Hawke did turn away then. Her mother's desperation on this point was growing palatable, but she wasn't sure there was much she could do about it. Her life didn't exactly lend itself to settling down and having children. Not to mention…

Leandra cleared her throat "I know you had an overnight guest recently."

Startled by her mother's newfound talent for mind reading, Hawke's chin snapped up, her eyes widened, and she felt just the hint of heat on her cheeks. "How..."

"Don't try to hide things from your mother," Leandra said with a smile. "It never works."

"So it seems," Hawke muttered. 

"I also know who it was." The smile faded, and Leandra shook her head. "An escaped slave, and an elf? I hope I know what you're doing."

 _So do I._ But Hawke only shrugged. "I don't wish to discuss it."

"Well." Leandra picked up the pruning shears and snipped off three wilted blooms from a nearby rosebush. "If you are serious about him, I suppose we'll find a way to make the best of it. But if you aren't, I see no reason for you not to attend the party."

"Except for the small detail that I hate them." Hawke sighed. "Mother, what do I have to say to convince you that I'm not cut out for this life you imagine for me? I'm an apostate; I can't be presented to society."

"But you can run around the city, making questionable business deals and doing whatever else you and Varric get up to?" Leandra turned to look at her again, shears still in her hand, with a rather threatening expression, but when she spoke, her voice was softer. "Indulge your mother, dear. Just this once."

Hawke was struck by a thought, then. "Tell me, will your suitor be there?"

A mysterious smile touched Leandra's lips. "Perhaps," she said.

Well, that was something. Maybe this mystery man would prove enough of a distraction to keep Leandra off her back for a time. "So, you want me to come as cover for you."

Leandra chuckled, her eyes warming. "Not hardly," she replied. "But if you prefer to take that as your reason, you may." 

"All right. I'll go." Hawke crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. "Just this once."

"Thank you, Marissa. Be ready at eight." Leandra turned back to her pruning, and Hawke watched her for a moment longer, then left to get ready. The things she did for love.


	16. P is for Pianissimo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pianissimo - Italian: superlative of piano, meaning quiet. A directive to musicians to play a passage very softly.

Hawke was never quite the same, afterwards. 

It was not as though she had ever been talkative; far from it. She used only as many words as it took to get her point across and no more, more likely to err on the side of terseness than saying too much. But despite that, she was always a presence. When she walked into a room, you took notice. Varric was hard-pressed to call it charisma, thanks to her brusque manner and her obvious disdain for most people. But she had ...something. And with her mother's death, that "something" seemed to evaporate, like mist under a punishing summer sun.

Varric had not been present for Leandra Hawke's death. He had gotten the tale from Isabela instead, her cheeks pale and her voice hushed as she'd described the gruesome scene, and for once Varric found himself unwilling to embellish on the truth. In fact, he wondered if he ought to tone it down, or maybe even side-step the episode entirely. Surely he could think up a more fitting end for poor Mistress Hawke. He hadn't known the lady well, but she'd always treated him with politeness and grace. And no one deserved to go like that.

Isabela said that Hawke had asked to be left alone, so Varric kept his distance. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way, he knew; after Bartrand, he had needed company and a barrel full of ale, but Hawke seemed the type to face strong emotions in private. As far as he knew, only Fenris had gone to visit -- now there was a situation Varric didn't want to touch with a ten-foot pike -- and he, too, intimated that Hawke wasn't yet ready for company. So Varric bode his time, waiting for Hawke to appear once again in the Hanged Man.

She did, soon enough, a week or so later, and that was when Varric saw the change in her. It was subtle, but real: no hush fell over the room when she opened the door, no heads turned. Her shoulders were ever so slightly slumped, and she glanced over them more often, as though she was no longer certain what was behind her, and Fenris standing guard wasn't enough protection. She took a seat at their usual table, Fenris exchanging nods with Corff, who sent over Norah; Varric waited a decent interval, then came downstairs to join them.

"Hey Hawke. Fenris." He kept his voice light as he slid into an empty chair, drink already in hand. 

"Varric." Hawke looked down into her mug of ale, then back up at him, face blank as she took a drink. It was unsettling, to see her sitting so still, no fire burning behind her eyes. Hawke wasn't one to let things go; her typical way of fixing a problem was to go out and bust some heads. But that wasn't going to work this time. The heads had been busted, and her mother was still dead. Varric had a hard time imagining where Hawke would go from here. 

Varric caught Fenris's eye with a questioning expression, and the elf shrugged, ever so slightly. It seemed he wasn't sure how to proceed either. Turning back to Hawke, he noticed she was watching him, eyebrow slightly raised. "It's good to see you," he said. "And, ah. You know. If you need anything..."

The right side of her mouth quirked up, into an approximation of a smile. "I know," she replied. "Thanks." She looked away for a second, and Varric saw her shoulders rise up in a deep breath. When she turned back, the smile was gone, but so was the blankness. "So. You know I've been out of commission. Anything going on I need to take care of?"

So she would head back to familiar ground; good. Varric let out a breath of his own and decided to follow her there. If she wanted to talk later, she would. Or maybe she never would, and that was fine, too. "I could use your help with a business deal that's coming down tomorrow. Want the details?"

"Sure." Hawke leaned forward, and Varric sorted through which of his various contacts he could press to give him a real job. If she was looking for a distraction, he'd be more than happy to oblige.


	17. Q is for Quartet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quartet - A musical group made up of four performers

"Say Hawke, I've always wondered something."

Hawke stopped, turned around to look at Varric. "This had better be important," she said.

"It's been eating me alive, I promise." Varric waved his hand around to encompass the group, which today consisted of Hawke, himself, Fenris, and Isabela. "When you gather us together to take care of something, why are we always a party of four?"

She all but rolled her eyes. "This is important?"

Behind Varric, Fenris let out an abrupt chuckle; she shot him a glare, and he had the grace to look away, but the echo of the smile remained on his face. She looked at Varric again, who shrugged. "What can I say? I'm a curious fellow."

"That you are," Isabela said with a laugh, and this time Hawke could not contain her sigh of irritation. "But you know, Hawke, now that he mentions it, I've noticed that, too."

"Fine." Hawke crossed her arms and looked at the three miscreants. "If you must know, I don't like trying to keep track of too many people. Especially when you lot need healing so often. And don't say that I should just bring Anders to help," she added, shooting a look at Isabela, who seemed primed to interject. "Coordinating with him is more work than doing it all myself. Any more than three others, and you just get in my way."

"Seems reasonable enough," Varric said. "But I have to admit, I was hoping for something more dramatic. Like maybe Flemeth put a curse put on you, or that's what the voices in your head tell you to do."

Hawke sighed again. "Of course you were. Now can we please get on with it?" Without waiting for a response, she turned around and headed back up the road. She didn't know why she bothered. He'd probably just make up some other reason anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of a meta throw-away, not really a part of the overall story arc. If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d probably put it between N and O. But as soon as I decided on the musical theme, I knew I was going to have to write this.


	18. R is for Rubato

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubato - Italian: “Stolen”. A directive to the performer to make subtle changes in tempo, speeding up or slowing down at the discretion of the soloist or conductor. Typically refers to taking some duration from one note or rest and giving it to another.

It had probably only been an hour since Hawke's disastrous audience with the Arishok, two at most, but she felt as though she had been walking the streets forever, fighting off the Qunari and their elven allies, time stretching and slowing but not able to stop until now, as she huddled with her companions at the base of a Lowtown stairwell, taking a moment to tend Varric's wounds while Aveline passed around a water bottle and Fenris kept watch, giving them all a moment to rest. Together, Hawke and Aveline had fought their way free of the compound, somehow finding the others on the docks, and then the four of them had agreed to make their way to Viscount's Keep, try to protect Dumar and Kirkwall as best they could. A task easier said than done, in a city gone mad.

Hawke tied up the worst of Varric's injuries -- a deep gash on his left arm -- and bathed him in healing magic, then looked him in the eye. "Better?"

"Better," Varric replied, the pain easing from his face as he rolled his shoulder in its socket.

"Then let's move." She caught Fenris's eye, and he nodded: the coat was clear. He darted forward out of their hiding place, sword raised as he charged up the stairwell, plunging with Aveline into the sounds of fighting, grunts and shouts and battle cries on the landing above them. 

Hawke took a moment to judge the situation: a pack of kossith up against a group of warriors, mostly male, mostly human, wearing oddly-familiar blue and silver armor. Whoever they were, they fought the Qunari, and that was good enough for Hawke to join the battle on their side. She thrust a gravity wave into where the enemy seemed thickest, pulling them together to make a better target for bolts and blades, and then time sped up again, leaving her cognizant of nothing beyond the enemy in front of her, blasting them with force or spirit energy, half-listening for calls for healing and answering with whatever aid she could. When the last Qunari had fallen, she pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked around, taking note of the new allies still standing, finally registering the griffon device on their shields and breastplates. 

"Grey Wardens?" Varric echoed her unspoken realization, speaking softly from behind her. "What are they doing here?" Hawke could not spare any attention to acknowledge him; everything had stopped, frozen into one still moment; a tall blond man with the air of a leader nodded to her, then stepped aside to give her the view of another man, rising to his feet and wiping blood off his brow, turing his wide blue eyes to her, a solemn look on his face.

"Somehow, I knew it would be you," he said.

His words broke the spell, and Hawke could breathe again, time resuming its normal pace. "Carver?"

"Hello, sister. Fancy meeting you here."

She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around him and find him real and solid and alive. But her feet insisted on staying bolted to the ground, her arms on crossing, her lips on twisting into a sneer. "And saving your ass, as usual."

He shook his head, and she thought she heard a hard chuckle beneath his breath. "As usual." 

"Well!" The big blond man walked over to their group. He wasn't as tall as Carver, but his shoulders were almost as broad, and he carried a wicked-looking heavy shield. "Of all the things I expected to face today, a Qunari attack was near the bottom of the list."

Carver looked at him, an eyebrow raised in an expression that Hawke recognized, with an odd stab of jealousy, as exasperated affection. A reaction she had turned on her brother a thousand times; the tables seemed to have turned. "Only near the bottom?"

The man shrugged. "It's a long list. I like to be prepared. But I've been remiss in introductions, haven't I?" He presented himself to Hawke with a half bow. "You must be Carver's sister Marissa. I'm Alistair, commander of this lot. Your brother is making quite a name for himself with the Wardens. You should be proud." He grinned at Carver, who glanced away, a bit of color rising to his cheeks. Alistair looked back to Hawke, still smiling. "I'd like nothing more than to stay and help, but we're on a mission that can't be delayed, I'm afraid."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "What could be more important than an invasion?"

Carver shook his head. "We can't tell you."

"I would," Alistair added, "but I swore on my pinky." His tone was light, almost jovial, and Hawke raised an eyebrow at him.

"You're not what I would have expected, from one of your order," she said, thinking back on the few stories Anders had told about his time with the Wardens. "I thought Grey Wardens were more serious." 

Alistair lifted his shoulder in a half-shrug. "I get that a lot." Then he turned and lifted his chin, and Carver nodded his acknowledgement, turning to go. 

A panic rose in Marissa's chest. She did not want him to leave; quite desperately, she needed him to stay. They were the last of the Hawkes, and if she let him go now, she might be alone forever. If she could draw out this moment, make it last just a little longer… "Wait!" He turned back. "I have to-- I have to tell you about Mother."

His eyes flicked down to his boots. "I know what happened," he said, softly, the grief plain in his voice. Then he looked up, gaze meeting hers, and though his eyes were sad, she saw no anger, no resentment, no blame. "I'm sure you did your best." And for once, it seemed obvious that he meant it: there was no subtle sarcasm or hidden agenda, only their shared sorrow.

Alistair looked back as well. "This isn't really the time," he said; his tone was not unsympathetic, but it was also firm. He rummaged in his pack, and pulled out an amulet which he handed her; it weighed in Marissa's hand, heavy with an enchantment. "Here. It's not much, but it might help. Belongs to the love of my life, but she seems to find stuff like these everywhere she goes. I'm sure she won't mind." 

She met his hazel eyes -- warm, understanding, with a touch of regret, and he nodded at her, then cast a more commanding look to Carver. Carver faced Marissa one last time, curving his mouth into a half-smile. "Goodbye, sister. Take care of yourself." 

And then he really did leave, turning his back Marissa, on Kirkwall, following Alistair and the rest of the Wardens out of the city. He seemed to walk in slow motion, to glide with a slow swagger, no more the insecure boy that Marissa remembered from even only three years ago: head up, shoulders back, each step taken with confidence. It showed the truth that she had read between the lines of his infrequent letters: Carver had found his place with the Wardens. Perhaps he was even happy. Still, she found her heart heavy, a lump rising in her throat. Not until this moment had she realized just how much she missed having him watch her back.

A hand fell on her shoulder, and she turned to see Aveline, looking at her with a serious expression. "He seems well," she said.

"Yes." Hawke looked back, and he was gone. She tightened her fingers around the amulet, then letting it go with a sigh, dropping it into her pack. "All right. No more time to waste." She hefted her staff to her shoulder and charged around the corner, ready for battle once more.


	19. S is for Sforzando

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sforzando - Shortening of subito forzando, Italian for “sudden force”. A directive to musicians to play a note or chord with particular, sudden emphasis.

The Arishok bellowed, rocking the viscount's keep to its foundations, and then he rushed forward, hands behind his back, head down as if to make himself into a battering ram. Likely an effective one, with those horns. Marissa Hawke had time to do just two things: jump out of the way -- at the very last second, in hopes that he might be unable to correct course and would crash into the column behind her instead -- and to wonder what she had gotten herself into. She had gone along with stupid plans before, but she had to wonder if any of them were stupider than agreeing to single combat with the Arishok. Maybe she should have just let them take Isabela; she was clever, surely she'd make her escape easily enough, and after all the trouble she'd caused...

Hawke took a quick glance over her shoulder, saw Isabela's wide eyes, her frightened expression, Fenris's hand wrapped around her arm the only thing that held her back from joining the fight. No, this was the only choice. She would never let anyone she cared about face what the Qunari called justice. Other kossith were vulnerable to her force and spirit magic; the Arishok was stronger and smarter than most of his brethren, but he was still made of bones and blood, still depended on his mind to make it all work. She could do this, if only she could stay out of his way long enough to build up the energy for a sustained barrage of spells.

To buy herself that time, she hit the whole floor with a slowing spell, then jumped aside again as the Arishok turned for another charge. Yes-- it was working, he was moving a touch more sluggishly than before, if not the swimming-through-molasses she would have preferred. She evaded every charge and attack, twisting around the columns and using them to her advantage, copying every trick she had seen Isabela and Varric use to avoid a straight-on attack and get behind an opponent. And she did it all with the minimum effort possible, keeping her breathing calm as she built up her mana reserves. 

" _Bas saarabas_!" The Arishok pulled his sword and swung it around his head. "Why will you not stand and fight?"

"This is how I stand and fight," she retorted. "You just named me _basalit-an_ ; changing your mind already? If you can't beat me -- a human, a woman, a mage -- what chance do you have against the rest of Thedas?"

Once again he roared, once again she dodged, but this attack came closer than any before it; he clipped her side and slammed her into the wall, and she had to waste precious mana to heal the bruises and stop the bleeding. Too risky to wait any longer; she couldn't afford to take another hit. She would have only one shot at this -- once she cast the series of spells she had planned, she would be drained and vulnerable for too many precious seconds. He'd be on her, and she'd be dead. So it had to work, and it had to work now.

She felt the gravity field ebbing away, saw him gathering up his strength to swing his blade -- was he, too, about to throw his all behind one roll of the dice? Then she would have to roll first. She downed the flask of lyrium she'd been hiding in the sleeve of her robe and shouted the single word that had to stop him dead. 

It worked. She knew instantly, saw the glimmering bands of a crushing prison fall around his arms to hold him in place. Then she lifted her arms up and slammed them down to her sides, bringing a ton of gravitational force down on his head, and he toppled to the ground, his bulk cracking the marble floor. Without pausing, she drew her staff and began twirling it, shooting him with bolt after bolt, his body jerking under the unrelenting assault, her fingers crackling with spirit energy, putting herself into every shot until the last of her power slid down her arms, into her hands, and out of her staff in a blinding flash of purple light. The Arishok twitched once more, then stopped.

Was he dead? 

Did it matter? Either way, she was done. Utterly spent. It was all Hawke could do to keep herself upright, to not betray her weakness. The room came to life around her -- only now, as they started to shuffle and whisper under their breath, did she realize that an eerie silence had fallen over the crowd during the battle. She stumbled forward, a few steps on shaking legs, toward the Arishok. He was gulping for air, breath rattling in his lungs as he struggled halfway to his feet, then fell again, backing up onto the stairs. His eyes focused on her, blazing and clear. "We... shall. Return." It was not a threat, but a promise, and for a moment Hawke's blood ran cold. And then his head fell backwards, his eyes went dim, and his lifeless body sprawled over the steps.

Hawke wanted nothing more than to collapse herself, to allow her exhaustion to take over, but she didn't dare, not here in front of everyone, especially not with the sounds of an opening door and the clank of armor behind her. It had to be Knight-Commander Meredith, Orsino a step behind her, a brace of templars another pace back, steps being taken her with purpose. Maker, she wasn't going to get arrested and thrown into the Gallows, was she? After she had just saved the hides of every person in this building? But she didn't have the strength to fight Meredith, either, so if she set her mind to it…. Hawke doubted whether she could cast another spell for hours, not even if she bathed in lyrium. Just carrying on a rational conversation might be beyond her mental capabilities right now. 

Then she felt the delicate touch of a rejuvenation spell, a familiar warm blanket thrown around her shoulders: Anders. He must have finally gotten here. But she had neither the time nor the energy to look for him, so she simply accepted his gift, let the magic flow through her, gathered it into her core to renew her strength. Still not enough to cast, but she felt strong enough now to stand upright without leaning on her staff; she sheathed it at her back and stood up straight. 

As she turned, she caught the worried faces of her friends and companions out of the corner of her eye, but she would have to reassure them later. Instead, she lifted her head high and met Meredith's cool eyes, ready to take whatever she was about to lay down. She had just killed the war leader of the Qunari in single combat; whatever Meredith might try now, she could handle.


	20. T is for Tempo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tempo - The speed at which a composition is to be played, typically measured in beats per minute.

Being named Champion of Kirkwall changed many aspects of life for Marissa Hawke, and not least among these was its pace. Where once she had been largely left alone, now there were petitioners on her doorstep nearly every day: begging aid, suggesting business ventures, wheedling her attendance at some social function or another. Her mother, she often thought, would have loved being at the center of this type of storm. But Hawke herself did not much care for it. More often than not, she rued the day that Meredith had saddled her with the title, although she had to admit that it did seem less likely, now, that the Templars would appear on her doorstep to drag her off in chains. 

A fact that Varric never failed to remind her of, when she got into a complaining mood during their weekly meetings at The Hanged Man. "You have your health, you have your freedom," he said for the umpteenth time, and she sighed and set down her empty mug. "It could be a lot worse."

"I know, I know." She drummed her fingertips across the glass. "But it's not the life I wanted. Remember when I was talking about going into business for myself? Shipping, or maybe mercenary work? How can I do that now, with half the eyes of Kirkwall on me?" 

Varric shrugged. "Seems to me like you can do pretty much anything you want. And never have to pay for a drink again while you're doing it." He gestured, and Hawke looked at the glass in her hand, somehow refilled when she wasn't looking. Corff nodded to her from the bar, then pointed toward a pack of city guards gathered around a table; one of them smiled to her, showing crooked teeth, and waved. Despite her inward cringe, she lifted her hand in reluctant acknowledgement, then turned back to Varric with a glare. 

"That's exactly what I'm talking about. What if I want to buy my own damn drink? What if I wanted to try something new?" Her hand curled into a fist. "But no, it's the same ale, the same faces, the same polite fictions every single day, the same people who think they own me because I have a fancy title that doesn't really mean anything. Anything I want? What I want--" She leaned forward and lowered her voice. "What I want is Knight-Commander Meredith out of the viscount's office. But that's not exactly in my power, is it?"

"I suppose there are limits." Varric leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Who would you see put in her place?"

Hawke shrugged. "Not my problem. That's one for the actual nobility to get off their asses and solve. I'm not, despite what some people believe, responsible for what happens in this blighted city." After another glare at her ill-gotten drink, she picked it up and took a sip anyway. "I just can't believe it's been nearly three years. And what has anyone accomplished in that time? No viscount, Aveline barely holding her ground against gangs and slavers, the mage underground all but destroyed, the Gallows locked up tighter than ever, Merrill still sitting in her rooms staring at that broken mirror, Fenris…" She thought better of continuing that particular train of thought; instead, she shook her head and drank again, more deeply this time. "And you, still living in that room upstairs, no closer to buying a share in the bar than you were before."

"Ah, but the books are selling well. That's the important thing." Varric lifted his glass with a grin. "C'mon, Hawke. Can't you just sit back and enjoy life for a little while, not rush forward into the next change? Because change will come. It always does."

"I suppose." Hawke drained her glass and stood up. "Thanks for listening to me complain."

"Any time," Varric said. "Same time next week?"

"Never miss it." She picked up her staff from the corner and hooked it across her back. "I hear Aveline is back from her honeymoon today, and I was going to head over to say hello. Join me for the walk?"

"Sure." Varric stood as well, stretching the cricks out of his back. "Wait here. I'll go get Bianca, and we'll take her for a spin around Hightown."


	21. T is for Tutti (alternate)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tutti - Italian, plural form of “all”; A directive for all musicians to perform a passage together. The opposite of solo. 
> 
> Written after "Tempo", but set before it in Marissa Hawke's timeline, which places the events of Legacy about two years after the battle with the Arishok.

"Watch out!" Carver charged from behind her, lifting his sword overhead as he prepared to jump, then landed square in the center of the hurlocks who had gathered to protect their emissary. Marissa Hawke stayed her hand, biting back the words of the spell she had been about to cast: a wave of gravity that would have knocked all of them off their feet, including Carver. He swept three of them aside in a single blow, then paused, raising a hand to his brow and murmuring a few words under his breath, and Hawke felt the distant disruption that meant a Templar was nearby. Discovering that Carver had picked up some of their abilities from a fellow Warden disconcerted her at first, but she had to admit that they made him useful against darkspawn emissaries: the magic-wielding hurlock dropped its arms and looked around wildly, and she took advantage of its confusion, blasting it with a spirit bolt. Down it went, and then Carver slid in close enough to take off its head before making short work of the rest.

He wiped the sword clean against the dusty floor, then returned it to its sheath before walking back to Hawke and the others -- Anders casting his traditional rejuvenating spell over them all, Varric readying Bianca with her next bolt -- and smiled. "Just like old times."

"Glorious Deep Roads architecture and all," Varric said, looking around at the cavernous spaces of the old Grey Warden prison they had entered. It was an impressive space, and formidable. One of the strangest, most imposing paths Hawke had ever walked, and yet familiar, too, to be back in the Deep Roads with Varric, Anders, and Carver: the same team that had traveled on Bartrand's expedition, almost five years ago now. The same, and yet different, mostly because of Carver.

He had shown up on her doorstep the day after the third Carta attack, with the same air of self-assurance she had seen during the Qunari uprising, and it had not gone away as they fought their way through the Vinmarks, the Carta hideout, and now this old Warden base. The mantle of Grey Warden had settled on his shoulders, and he wore it well. Some things had changed little: they still worked together well, covering each other's weak points without discussion. But he was more likely to take initiative and less likely to do something rash. Despite the horror of the circumstances, Hawke could see that becoming a Warden was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Little Carver had finally grown up.

Not that she would admit this to him, ever, especially not when he looked at her like that, smirk firmly in place -- his expression took her straight back to Lothering and every fight they'd ever had, Carver posturing to get Father's attention, then running back to Mother whenever she got the best of him with a bloody nose or singed eyebrows. "Enough nostalgia," she said, to herself as much as the others. "It was late afternoon when we came underground, so it must well past time to make camp. I'd suggest heading back to the surface, but I'm not sure we can. We'll have to make do down here." She looked at the hard stone floor. "Not much chance of a fire, I suppose."

"No, but I brought cold rations." Carver set down his pack and started rustling through it. "I can take first watch. Not sure I could sleep right now, anyway." He cast a meaningful look at Anders, who nodded; Hawke wondered what communication had just passed between them. Warden business, presumably. It was odd to think that Carver and Anders shared a bond that she would never know anything of -- her brother and one of her closest friends, shutting her out, not by choice but by necessity.

It was almost as strange as the thought that she had close friends now. Varric, too, she thought, watching as he helped Carver set up camp. Somehow, these three men had become some of the most important people in her world. And Fenris, but she was never quite sure what to make of Fenris. Two years later, and he had not so much as touched her except in the service of battle, but he still came by for reading lessons, still walked her home from The Hanged Man, still cast her ambiguously longing looks. He confused her, and there were few things Marissa Hawke hated more than confusion.

She shook her head and sighed -- not an uncommon reaction when she got stuck on thinking about Fenris -- and sat down next to Carver, who handed her a skin of water. "What do you make of this whole business with Father?" he asked.

Hawke took the water with a shrug. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow." She drank and handed him the water back, then leaned into his solid, warm side. He put an arm around her and they sat in comfortable silence. Carver had changed, but he was still family, and that was enough.


	22. U is for Unison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unison - An interval of zero between pitches. Two instruments playing in unison are playing exactly the same note.

The door snicked shut behind Varania and left utter silence behind her, as though every single person in the Hanged Man held their breath, waiting to see what Fenris would do next. As did Marissa Hawke, suffused with a profound sense of deja vu: Fenris, standing over the body of a dead magister, the blood on his hands not yet dry, his back to her, his shoulders taut. And yet it was different, too, because only Danarius lay dead, not his sister -- Fenris's hand had, at the last moment, been stilled by a well-timed word from Varric. Hawke had mixed feelings about letting Varania walk free, but she thought it better that Fenris not be responsible for the deed. Family was family, regardless of what Varania had done.

The long, awful moments ticked by, and then Fenris turned around and let out a shuddering breath. "I thought discovering my past would give me a sense of belong, but I was wrong. Magic has tainted that, too. There is nothing for me to reclaim." He turned away, head hanging over his shoulder. "I am alone."

Yes, it was the slavers' cave all over again; his desolation hit Hawke in the chest like a hammer blow, and just as before, she couldn't stop herself from stepping forward, reaching out to him with her words: "I'm here, Fenris."

He looked at her, eyes brimming with sadness, tenderness, longing; Hawke froze as their eyes locked, and he raised a gentle hand to her face, his thumb brushing her cheek, the tips of his fingers grasping the underside of her chin. She took a breath, and he breathed in at the same time, and the last three years fell away as though no time had passed. They became one mind, one breath, one body; he tipped his head to the side, expression softening even more, and Hawke's heart turned over, lost in the depths of his pale green eyes.

Then he dropped his hand and turned his back to her again. But she could not look away, her eyes fastening on his shoulders, the way they slumped, how his hair fell forward. Her heart flipped one more time, flying up into her throat. It hurt to see him like this: so bent, so broken.

The crowd was coming back to life around them -- going back to the business of drinking, gossiping, setting the tables back to rights -- but it was all distant in comparison to Fenris, filling her senses, until he turned around again, face twisted into a snarl of disgust. "You heard what Varania said. I wanted these. I fought for them." He held out his arms and glowered at each bicep in turn. "I feel unclean, as if this magic is not only etched into my skin, but has also stained my soul." He shook his head, eyes focused on the floor yet again. "Let's go. I need to get out of here." And he did, not looking up, not looking back at Danarius's body, still sprawled on the floor. Without a word, Hawke fell into step beside him, out the door and into the street. They walked together as far as the stairs, and then he stopped, looked up at her.

"Thank you for your help, Hawke. I'll see you later."

Hawke acknowledged the dismissal with a nod and watched him go, hardly noticing when Isabela took the step next to her. "Aren't you going to go after him?" she asked.

"Not right now." Hawke kept her eyes fixed on the back of his head, remembering how he had given her space while staying close at hand after Mother's death. "Later, when he's ready." Every other time he had walked away from her like this, she'd wondered whether he would return, but he always had. And now she knew he always would. She turned to Isabela with a shrug. "Let's go back to the bar. I could use a drink."


	23. V is for Volume

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Volume - The degree of sound intensity or audibility; loudness.

Hawke stormed out of Anders's clinic and slammed the door behind her, heedless of the bang that rattled the rickety wooden steps. The others noticed, though: Isabela started, Fenris leaned away, and Varric actually jumped, checking over his shoulder as if for danger. 

It didn't matter; she needed to get out of here. "Let's go." Head high, cheeks burning, Hawke walked past her companions without bothering to check whether any of them had followed, her steps quickening until she was almost running down the stairs, only stopping when a hand fell on her arm: Varric's. She whirled around and flung herself free, glowering at him. "What?"

His eyes betrayed his concern, though the lightness of his tone suggested mere curiosity. "Just wondering about the rush. Anders isn't going to be at the Chantry for at least an hour yet."

Hawke crossed her arms. "Heard that, did you?"

Varric chuckled. "Would have been hard to miss. Neither you nor Blondie were exactly keeping your voices down."

She narrowed her eyes at the memory of the conversation. "I don't like being threatened. Or having my motives questioned. When, since the Deep Roads, have I ever been anything less than a friend to him? Less than supportive of the cause?"

"I agree, he was terribly unfair to you." Isabela's brow furrowed into a crest of worry. "Or maybe it was his little friend doing the talking?"

"I doubt that. In truth, I don't think there's much difference anymore." Hawke took a deep breath, then released it slowly, letting some of her anger free along with it. "But-- he's not entirely wrong. I haven't done much to advance the cause of mages. Especially not lately."

Varric snorted. "Not much besides stand up to the Knight Commander in front of half the nobility of Kirkwall."

Hawke waved it away with a toss of her hand. "Words, nothing more. Where was I while she was smashing the Mage Underground? Or rounding up dissenters to be made Tranquil? Anders is right. I need to make a stronger stand."

"So you'll start by running mysterious errands for him?" Isabela glanced over her shoulder at Fenris. "You're awfully quiet. Where's the diatribe about mages and magic and the root of all evil?"

Fenris looked back at her, calm, relaxed. "Hawke knows my feelings on the matter, and I am aware of hers. We have agreed to disagree."

Isabela raised an eyebrow at Hawke, who nodded. "No point in arguing about it," Hawke said. "We've learned to trust each other. He has good reason for feeling as he does about mages in general. So do I; so does Anders. More shouting isn't going to change anyone's mind."

"Wish you could convince him of that," Isabela muttered with a glance up the stairs, toward the clinic.

Hawke noted the closed door, the lanterns unlit for the day. "Maybe he's as tired of shouting as I am. Maybe this visit to the Chantry is a path to another way out. Whatever he's planning, it's got to be better than the current stalemate. Meredith can't strangle Kirkwall and the Gallows for another three years. We've made enough noise. Perhaps now is the time for action."

"I suppose." Varric sounded dubious, but he didn't flinch. "Well, we have a little time. Let's not spend it standing around down here any longer than we have to."

"My thoughts exactly." Hawke started walking again, her mind on the next destination: the Chantry. She had never managed much productive conversation with Elthina, but perhaps Sebastian would have some ideas. It was a plan, at least, to get them out of Darktown and keep them moving forward, and perhaps for now that was the best she could do.


	24. W is for Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Waltz - A ballroom dance in triple meter. Popular in the 19th century.

It was a beautiful day on the mountainside, and Hawke took a moment to enjoy the warm sunshine, closing her eyes and tipping her head back to let its rays bathe her face and neck. When she could no longer ignore the glare burning a hole in her shoulders, she turned toward Fenris: hands on his hips, his head cocked to the side. "What?"

His scowl deepened. "You act as though we're out for a pleasure stroll."

"We might as well take something pleasant out of this debacle." Duke Prosper's house party had been nothing like she'd envisioned, starting with the long and frustrating wyvern hunt, then making small talk with Orlesian idiots while Tallis tried to charm her way inside. That hadn't worked, of course; anyone charmed by Tallis needed to have their head examined. Hawke should have taken the direct approach to start with, rather than waiting to take charge until they got inside the house. Perhaps that approach had gotten them thrown in a prison cell, but given the trap that had been laid for them, Hawke was unconvinced that Tallis's plan -- taking hours to sneak through shadows -- would have ended any differently. 

Either way, she'd spent the night imprisoned and the morning fighting her way through caves. A far cry from the romantic evening with Fenris she'd half-hoped for once their errand was complete: dressing him up in finery, strolling through the gardens, scandalizing the nobility by introducing him as her consort. She had even contemplated convincing him to dance. Amazing how much more tolerable these social obligations could be, given the right partner. 

Although at the moment, said partner was shuffling his feet through the grass, looking worried and uncomfortable. She arched a brow at him. "Out with it."

He stopped and looked up at her, through the hair falling in his eyes. "You frightened me." 

It was not the answer she was expecting. "Me?"

"Last night, before we found you, there was a moment when I--" He fell abruptly silent. Hawke waited, but nothing more was forthcoming until he let out a long sigh and looked at her, eyes bright with unhappiness. "Don't do that again."

 _Stop. Just stop._ But she couldn't help it -- her mouth curved into a wry smile as she remembered a hundred other scrapes she'd been in, every other time she'd been closer to death than last night. She managed to hold back her laughter, but still Fenris noticed her inappropriate mirth, and his frown deepened as he looked away. 

Behind them, Varric cleared his throat. "Well! Look at that view. I think I'll go contemplate it for awhile. Don't wait; I'll catch up."

He walked off, out of conversational earshot but near enough that he could cover them with crossbow fire at need; Hawke waited until he was a decent distance away, then took Fenris by the collar and dragged him behind a tree. 

"You worry too much," she said before she kissed him, pressing him up against the tree trunk; he brought his arms around her, his hands gripping her waist, and crushed her close. His lips parted and pulled her in, as if to devour her, make them one, and she wound her fingers tightly into his hair.

Fenris leaned his forehead against hers, their noses lightly rubbing. "I couldn't go on, Hawke." He tightened his hands on her back even more, as if to reassure himself that she could not get away. "Not in a world without you. And to even glance at the possibility carries me into uncharted ground, leaves me uncertain, unsteady on my feet. Afraid."

Hawke pulled him in to another kiss, more gentle this time, murmuring softly against his lips. "I'm learning the steps to this dance myself, you know." 

He pulled back, eyes smoldering, heavy with want. "So you've said. Though given your beauty and strength, I have a hard time believing it."

She took a deep breath, words and emotions jumbled together, spinning around in her head. Given the choice between having this conversation, and being compelled to waltz with Orlesian nobility for a thousand years, she'd probably take the ballroom. "I've… never let myself get too close to anyone who wasn't family. Being on the run, in hiding, always knowing that I'd have to pull up stakes and move on sooner or later. No one ever seemed worth the trouble. It was easier to be alone. Until you."

Fenris kissed her again, long and slow, and she let him feel the truth of her words in her touch. She lowered her head onto his shoulder and held him close, swaying to no music at all except for the twitter of distant birds and the breeze in the trees overhead. Never mind last night -- this was better than any garden party or formal dance ritual could ever be. Hawke dropped light kisses on his neck and behind his ear. "Now, let's get off this rock and back to real life. All right?"

He let his hand fall in hers and favored it with a gentle squeeze. "I shall follow your lead, as ever."


	25. X is for Xylophone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Xylophone - A musical instrument consisting of a graduated series of wooden bars, usually sounded by striking with small wooden hammers.

There were many enemies that Hawke would've been happy never to fight again: giant spiders, ogres, those dratted ghasts that had overrun most of Chateau Haine. But she had always harbored a particular loathing for the risen dead. Not because fighting them was particularly difficult -- most were vulnerable to the gravity and spirit magic she favored, so she could defeat them easily enough. But encountering them always sent a chill down her spine, a sense of horror she could not quite shake. The dead deserved rest, not subjugation to the whims of demons and blood mages. And it seemed as though these creatures were everywhere in Kirkwall -- in the caves, in the sewers, and of course strewn over the paths of the Wounded Coast, ready to be risen into an army in an instant. Yet another legacy of Kirkwall's bloody history. 

But this phalanx of skeletons was the army that stood between her and Carver's safety, so this was the army she would fight, despite her nagging feeling that these Gallows conspirators were playing her like a viol. It didn't matter, not right now. If they had so much as singed a hair on her brother's head...

And so Hawke forged ahead, heedless of her own safety as she blew through the crowd of unholy creatures, piercing them with energy bolts, knocking them down with gravity waves, bones crashing and rattling together as they clattered to the ground, creating a sort of music that played counterpoint to the heart pounding in her chest, beating a rhythm for the unending litany in her thoughts: she could not save Father; she could not save Bethany; she could not save Mother; but she would save Carver, whatever it took. There was no other option.

No matter what stood in her way.


	26. Y is for Yodel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yodel - To sing, call, or shout with frequent changes from the ordinary voice to falsetto and back again.
> 
> Took a few liberties with the game dialogue at the end, and with the connotations of the theme word. Major endgame spoilers.

"Maker, No!"

The cry had come from behind her, ripped in agony from Sebastian's heart, loud enough to be heard even over the crash of falling stone and twisting metal, through the screams of the frightened and the dying, and it was that wail of desolation and loss that still rang in Hawke's mind after the whirlwind of recriminations and battle came to an end. Meredith had declared an illegal Rite of Annulment, and it was up to Hawke to stop her, but there was another matter to take care of first. 

Sebastian had called for blood, and Hawke couldn't blame him -- they had never become close friends, and Hawke hadn't thought much of Elthina, but she knew, all too well, the pain of sudden, horrific loss, and the need to lash out against the easiest person to blame. And Anders would not fight Sebastian's vengeance. That was plain enough from the way he sat on that crate, his back to them, no fear or tension in his shoulders. He expected to die for his crimes, and Hawke was sorely tempted to follow through. Fenris agreed; so did Aveline. She had killed other people for far less.

Justice. Anders spoke so often of his thirst for justice; what, now, if justice demanded his own death? Would that balance the scales of all the other lives lost today? Perhaps.

But other voices called for mercy: Isabela, Merrill, Varric in his own way. And one more, a nagging call from her memories, deep in her heart, the warm tones of Malcolm Hawke, reminding her of the future Anders fought for, and her own belief in it. Her father would not have fought on the front lines of Anders's revolution, of that Hawke was certain, but neither would he have stood in its way. He would have found a way to spare Anders, to help him move the cause forward. 

Hawke thought back to the conversation she'd had with Isabela and Varric last month, on the day Anders had surely laid the final groundwork for this plan, about being tired of shouting and ready for action. Was this just one more shout, louder and more destructive than any before it? Or was it a decisive action, the strike against the Templars and the Chantry that would lead to their eventual downfall?

That question would have no answer today. Most likely, it was a question for the ages, but Hawke didn't have ages. She had only minutes to get to the Gallows, to protect as many mages from Meredith and her madness as possible. And Anders would be a target in his own right; Hawke did not know that she could save him, too.

But neither could she execute him. It was not her right, nor her responsibility. History would judge Anders and Justice, not one woman from Kirkwall, no matter how many titles she'd been slapped with. So she stuck her knife back in her belt and stepped away.

"Get out of here."

Anders stood, slowly, and turned around to look at her, brows raised in surprise. "And go where?"

Hawke waved her hand, batting impatiently at the empty air. "Anywhere. I don't care. Just go."

He nodded, eyes warming. "Thank you for my life. I'll try not to make such of a mess of it this time."

"What!" Sebastian charged towards her, head lowered, hands clenched. "No! You cannot let the abomination walk free."

Hawke gestured toward Anders. "There he is. You want him dead so badly, then kill him yourself. But I'm not doing it for you." She crossed her arms and let out a sharp breath, seven years of being responsible for other people's problems flying off her shoulders all at once. "I'm not doing your dirty work anymore, Sebastian. Not yours, or anyone else's."

Sebastian jerked back, away from her, turned around in a tight circle; out of the corner of her eye, Hawke thought she saw Isabela smile, Varric shake his head. When he turned back to her, his handsome face was contorted into an ugly sneer. "Fine. You win today, Hawke. But I swear to you, I will go back to Starkhaven, and I will raise an army the likes of which has never been seen. There will not be enough of Kirkwall left for you or any other malificarum to rule, and your precious Anders will learn what justice truly is!" 

With that, he whirled around and stalked away from her, from all of them, his final threat still ringing through the courtyard. Was it only talk, or would he take action for once? Hawke watched the empty air for a moment, then shook her head. It didn't matter, because she wouldn't be here to see it. Once the mages were safe, she would quit this place. She'd been in Kirkwall too long already.


	27. Z is for Zwischenspiel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zwischenspiel - German: “between plays”; An interlude played between the verses of a hymn.

It had taken Hawke and her friends too long to make their way to the docks, cutting a path through Templars and around piles of rubble -- the debris from the Chantry explosion extended as far as Lowtown -- then another hour of fighting in the Gallows to reach this quiet spot where the surviving mages had huddled together for safety. About the only thing that had gone right was the sudden appearance of Carver outside the Hanged Man, as welcome a face as she had ever seen. Proprietary be damned: this time, she had embraced him, fiercely, and he had hugged her in return. 

"After you freed me from those fanatics, I stayed nearby," he'd explained as soon as they had a quiet moment, on the ferry to the Gallows. "Had a feeling you might need me soon." Then he'd glanced up at the prison, a wry smile spreading over his face. "Looks like I was right."

"You were," Hawke assured him. "But what about the Wardens? I thought you weren't supposed to get involved in politics."

"Hang the Wardens!" His hand tightened into a fist. "Family is more important." He glanced down at her. "I'll go back when this is over. That's the thing about the Wardens: no matter what you've done, they'll always take you back."

And then they had arrived, the time for talking done, until now. One more chance to stop, to check her breath and check in with Carver and the others -- all the others, including Anders; probably she should not have been surprised to see him here, ready to stand with his fellow mages and help protect them from the consequences of his choice. She stopped and talked with each of them, but she never lost sight of the one who mattered most, standing sentry at the edge of the courtyard, staring up at the full moon. When had night fallen? Some time ago, if the angle of the moonlight bathing the courtyard was anything to go by. She'd been so wrapped up in battle, in moving forward, that she'd failed to notice.

"I'm glad you're here," she said, quietly. 

Fenris turned and looked at her, lips quirked into a smile. "I can hardly believe that I am. Here, I mean. Ready to defend these mages with my life. You bring me to strange places, Hawke."

She tipped her head to the side. "I'll take you to even stranger ones."

He chuckled, then looked down at his feet. "I-- might not have another chance to say this. Hawke." Turning, he lifted his chin and met her eyes, face shadowed, brow darkening with worry. "Meeting you was the most important thing that ever happened to me. Please, promise me you won't die?" He raised a hand to her cheek, the tips of his fingers caressing the back of her neck. His eyes were on hers, a note of tender pleading in his words. "I couldn't bear to go on without you."

His hair captured the moonlight, a nimbus encircling his face. How many times had she noticed that same effect on their walks through Hightown and taken a moment just to look, to admire him, to marvel at how fortunate she was to have him by her side? What if this was the last… No. She refused to think that. This would not be the end, for either of them. So she shook her head and looked back at him. "I don't plan on dying."

"You'd better not." His voice dipped into a growl that weakened her knees, and then he claimed her mouth with a long, hard kiss, his arms around her shoulders as she wrapped hers around his waist and pulled him near. She closed her eyes and tasted his breath, drew on his strength, let herself forget where she was, surrounded by frightened mages, and the horrors that surely awaited them outside.

He kissed her cheek, her chin, pressed his lips against her nose, brought their foreheads together. "Hawke," he murmured, more a vibration over her skin than a word.

"Fenris," she whispered in return. "We will survive this. Together. I swear it."

He tightened his arms around her. "Good."

One last, swift kiss, and she let him go, let the formal walls drop back between them. She could not concentrate on fighting the templars and protecting Fenris both. Fortunately, she trusted him to take care of himself. "Be ready. They will be here soon."

Fenris nodded, then took him his point position guarding the entrance to the courtyard yet again. Somewhere in a nearby hall, the sound of tromping boots and jingling armor was coming closer. Not long now.


	28. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda - Italian: “tail”. The closing passage of a musical composition.

Kirkwall always looked smaller from the windswept hillsides of the Wounded Coast, as though Hawke could gather the whole thing up into her hand and slide it into a bottle, a big one that held cheap wine or a model of a ship. Too bad that was impossible. It would have made the damn place a lot easier to protect. 

Smoking scars and lines of debris drew her eyes to the empty hilltop where the Chantry had once stood. It wasn't even a ruin, just a pile of rubble. She hugged herself and shivered, despite the warm afternoon sun. Some champion she had been. By some definitions, she was to blame for this carnage. And yet it also served to herald a change that needed to come. Would history judge her a hero or a failure? For now, history wasn't telling. 

She shook her head and glanced back over her shoulder, noting Fenris out of the corner of her eye as he tended the campfire. They had been only half a day on the road, but thanks to the head start that Cullen had implicitly promised, she felt comfortable making camp here. One last day with the city in her sights, she thought as she turned back to look again. One last chance to say goodbye.

Not many goodbyes said as she'd left town -- Merrill had disappeared sometime before the fight with Meredith, and Anders had melted into the shadows almost immediately afterwards. Aveline was staying, honor-bound to help the guards restore order out of chaos. Again. Hawke did not envy her the task. Meanwhile, Isabela and Varric had taken off together in her new ship; she had offered Hawke and Fenris places aboard, but Hawke had declined. Better to cut ties with them all now, quickly and cleanly, even if she'd felt a pang at saying farewell. She was a danger to them, her name and face too well known, too well associated with the Chantry's destruction. Templars would be on the hunt for her as well as Anders. No reason for the rest to become targets, too. 

A crunch of boots on the gravel broke Hawke from her reverie, and she turned to see Carver standing beside her. "Sister? Are you all right?"

Hawke shrugged. "I'm fine."

Carver went down to one knee, balancing himself against a boulder. "Why is it I only ever seem to come back home when the place is in flames?" He glanced up at her. "If it's even home anymore."

Slowly, Hawke shook her head, raised her eyes to look out beyond the city, past the harbor, to the horizon that Isabela's ship had disappeared over long since. "For awhile, I suppose. But I'm not sorry to leave. There's nothing there for me anymore." Seven years in one place, and it already seemed like a dream, something that had happened to someone else a long time ago.

A hand fell on her shoulder and squeezed: Fenris. She flashed him a brief smile, which he returned, eyes warm with affection. If nothing else, Kirkwall had brought them together, and for that she was grateful. A good enough reason to hope for its survival.

"So." Fenris brought his other hand around her waist, planted a gentle kiss on the back of her neck. "What next?"

A question that had been on Hawke's mind for some time. "We start by taking Carver back to Ansburg," she said. "And from there…." She paused to consider their options. Antiva, perhaps, or Rivain, somewhere the Chantry held less influence. Or perhaps they'd try their luck with the Qunari -- the Arishok had named her baslit-an, and then she'd defeated him in single combat. That had to be worth something. 

But that discussion could come later. She turned her face towards his, kissed him quickly, then looked back to the horizon. "Somewhere far from here," she said. For now, that was decision enough.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cadence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/500215) by [owlmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlmoose/pseuds/owlmoose)




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